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SELECT POEMS, &c. 

BY THE LATE 

JOHN DAWES WORGAN, 

OF BRISTOL, 

WHO DIED ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JULY 1809, 
AGED NINETEEN YEARS. 






ro WHICH ARE ADDED, 

Some Particulars of his Life and Character, 

BY AN EARLY FRIEND AND ASSOCIATE. 



WITH A PREFACE, 
BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, LSQ, 



PHILADELPHIA 



PUBLISHED BY KIMBER Sc RICHARDSON, 

NO. 237, MARKET STREET. 

Merritt, Printer, Watkin's Alley. 
1813. 



^ * -• * 1 



Tix s's'^f 






TO 

EDWARD JENNER, M.D. F.R.S« 

is'c. ^c. is?c. 

Sir, 

IT is with peculiar satisfaction 
that I place under the shelter of your indul- 
gent patronage, this little Memorial of unaf- 
fected piety, solid worth, and early genius;— 
that piety, whose moral tendency and conso- 
latory influence you have witnessed with ad- 
miration, — that worth, which you have so 
justly appreciated,— and that genius, which 
has been fostered by your kind encourage- 
ment. 

To you, who animated the exertions of 
Worgan's life by your approbation, and who 
watched over the couch of his affliction with 
the skill and sympathy of an affectionate phy- 
sician, these his literary Remains must be 
particularly interesting; I could only wish 
that his memorialist were more capable of ren- 



IV 



dering them engaging to others also; or 
that, being relieved from public scrutiny, 
he had to present this juveriile sketch to those 
alone, who, like you, may forget the inability 
of the biographer, in recollecting the genuine 
value of his friend. 

May you reap the purest satisfaction from 
a review of those blessings which, under 
Providence, vou have communicated to the 
w^orld; — and in the present instance, from 
the consideration, that if the sanction of your 
name assists the circulation of this little vo- 
lume (as I am persuaded it must) m so 
honouring departed merit, and alleviating pa- 
rental sorrow, you may be the means of re- 
commending, by the force of example, re- 
medies of considerable efficacy against the 
moral and spiritual diseases of mankind. 

I have the honour to remain, 
Sir, 
Your obliged and devoted servant, 

THE EDITOR. 



PREFACE 



THE very amiable youth, whose eai^ly 
compositions appear in the present vo- 
lume, became known to me by letters a 
few years ago. I had observed with 
pleasure the modest, ingenuous spirit 
with which he endeavoured to surmoimt 
all impediments that might preclude him 
from literary distinction, for which he 
panted with the natural ardour of a 
youthful poet. I had admired the grate- 
ful docihty with which he acquiesced in 
the advice of friends who, when he was 
preparing a juvenile volume for the press, 
had cautioned him against the dangers 
of too early publication: I had ap- 
plauded the spirit and the propriety with 
which he appeared as the public eulogist 

of his beneficent patron, Doctor Jenner^ 

A 2 



VI 



and I entertained a lively hope that my 
young friend was on the point of begin- 
ning a highly promising career, as a student 
in the University, when the following letter 
unexpectedly announced to me the over- 
throw of all his earthly expectations, and led 
me to contemplate the dying youth with 
mingled emotions of sorrow and admiration, 
and (to speak of him in a phrase of Dryden's) 
as a probationer of Heaven : 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Bristol^ June 23, 1809. 

•* MY DEAR SIR, 

" WITH much weakness and incapacity 
1 once more engage in the ever agreeable employ- 
ment of writing to you, to return my very grate- 
ful, though long delayed, acknowledgments for 
your kind packet and affectionate letter of the 7th 
of March. A few days after their arrival, it 
pleased the Divine Providence, in its infinite 
wisdom, that I should be attacked with a violent 
spitting of blood, with its concomitant com- 
plaints. For the ten weeks that I remained under 



vu 

r 

Dr. Jenner's roof, his attention and kindness were 
unremitting ; but finding all in vain towards my 
recovery, he recommended my return home^ 
where I at present am residing with my mother, 
a candidate for the eternal world, and humbly 
awaiting the time when this mortal body shall no 
longer be the frail imperfect residence of the im- 
mortal spirit. 

" I must candidly confess that the messenger of 
death was a fearful and unwelcome visitant. The 
anxieties which had harassed my mind for a con- 
siderable time were removed by the exertions 
of my friends a few days previous to my sei- 
zure. I was about to enter the University, with 
the hope of an honourable and successful course. 
The pleasures of reciprocal affection (of which 
you speak in your last letter) were mine in their 
fullest extent ; and I had raised a goodly fabric of 
renown, in fancy, in contemplating which I had 
often amused my melancholy, but which, unless 
it be completed by some friendly hand, must fall 
to the ground, and oblivion must prey upon my 
name. Bright were my prospects ; but they were 
the prospects of earth, and rapidly overcast with 
clouds. Heaven has taught me to lift my hopes 
and desires and views to an eternal land, where 
what I am to leave in this perishable spot shall 
be infinitely counterbalanced and overpaid. The 



Vlll 

prospects now before me shall never be clouded. 
The consciousness of innate depravity indeed I 
cannot but feel ; yet I feel also, and I believe and 
know, that in the salvation which was wrought out 
through the death of the Redeemer of mankind, 
an atonement was effected to expiate the trans- 
gressions of the world. In this divine atonement I 
have sought for pardon and holiness, and new life 
and light ; and I have cause to foster an humble 
hope that I have not sought in vain. Thus then 
as a pardoned sinner, even on the couch of sick- 
ness, I can exult with celestial hope. 

" Oh! how does the world sink in estimation when 
compared with the idea of those good things which 
God has prepared for those who love him ! I bid 
it and all its endearments farewell without a sigh, 
when I contemplate the blessed mansions of Im- 
mortality, in which, through the boundless com- 
passion of my God, and the propitiatory merits 
of my Redeemer, I have a good hope, through 
grace, that this fluttering spirit of mine will 
shortly have its abode. It is a dread thing, and 
the frequent source of a gloomy awe to my mind, 
to appear in the presence of the living God. But 
this is my consolation, that the Ruler of the skies 
is He who was crucified on earth, whom therefore 
we may approach not only as our God, but as 
our Saviour 5 and knowing that our sins have been 



TX 

cancelled in his piacular blood, we may not only 
banish dread, but cherish unutterable joy. O death! 
where is thy sting ? — O grave ! where are thy 
victories ? I know in whom I have believed. I 
know that my Redeemer liveth.' 



jy 



" yune 30. 
" I have written the above, my dear Sir, at 
various intervals, as my strength allowed. I have 
described the sentiments of an overflowing heart, 
as they arose on the conviction that this may be 
the last letter which it will be in my power to 
address to you. The pleasure of hearing from 
you has always been truly great ; yet at the present 
period, it would be doubly great. With the hope 
then of being honoured and gratified with a letter 
from you, when your engagements will allow, I 
am your truly obliged faithful servant, 

" J. D. WORGAN.'^ 

I have here inserted the letter to vi^hich 
I alluded, because my own feelings induce 
me to believe, that in leading the reader to 
take a tender interest in his posthumous 
writings, it may have a beneficial influence 
on many young minds, and prove a powerful 



incentive to diligence and piety; and be- 
cause my immediate reply gave rise to 
this publication. As I knew it was the 
wish of this engaging youth that his sur- 
viving friends should not suffer those of his 
poetical effusions to die with him which 
they might deem worthy of public favour, I 
offered to receive any papers that he might 
be anxious to confide to my care. He ex- 
pired without having strength to write to me 
again ; but his papers have been sent to me, 
and I have made such a selection as I am 
inclined to think his pure spirit might ap- 
prove : happy if my just attention to his 
wishes may soothe that anguish of heart 
which the loss of so excellent a son could 
not fail to excite in a very sensible and af- 
fectionate mother. Intending to introduce 
his compositions to the public by a brief ac- 
count of their interesting author, I entreated 
one of his young associates to favour me with 
the particulars of his life, as he was person- 
ally unknown to me. His friend supplied me 
with what he modestly wished me to consi 



d6r as merely heads for a more extensive bio- 
graphical composition, which he and the re- 
lations of the deceased expected me to pre- 
fix to the verses of our lamented young poet. 
But the narrative has so much of truth and 
nature — it is so just and so pleasing a deli- 
neation of that exemplary youth whose cha^ 
racter was impressed by long intimacy on the 
heart and mind of his surviving fellow-stu- 
dent, that I should think myself guilty of in- 
juring the deceased, if I any ways deprived 
him of so becoming a tribute to his memo- 
ry. I therefore confine myself to this Pre- 
face, by which I am ambitious of introducing 
the young poet and his young biographer to 
the kind notice of the public. It seems to 
me to be a duty incumbent on the veterans 
of literature to encourage the activity and 
promote the reputation of studious and lau- 
dable youth ; and that I may not appear, by 
an act of justice to the living, to shrink from 
expressing my sentiments of the dead, I 
beg leave to terminate this introduction by 
the following Elegy. 



Xli 



ELEGY. 



Youth of ingenuous mind, and sacred song ! 

Be selfish grief's temerity forgiven, 
That wish'd thy days of trouble to prolong, 

And, as untimely, mourn'd thy flight to Heaven ! 

Friendship and Love, in visions of the heart, 
Had seen thy genius burst through every bar^ 

They deem'd thee destined by poetic art 
To rise in learning's sphere, a lucid star. 

Sweet was the promise of thy early lyre, 
Sweet as the skylark soaring from his sod ; 

Thine were the gifts, that purest verse inspire, 
An eye for Nature, and a soul for God ! 

But like a blight, that mars both flower and stem, 
Fortune the germs of genius may oppress ; 

And mutual love, of Earth the rarest gem, 
May only prove a signet of distress. 



Hapless affection, and the mournful muse, 

Fed and absorb'd thy mental powers by stealth ; 
While care's dark flood,, like night's most noxious 
dews, 
Drown'd thy sweet hopes, and undermin'd thy 
health* 

«t 
But oh ! when life, to thy enlighten'd eyes, 

Seem'd but the closing of a troubled dream. 

How didst thou welcome radiance from the skies I 

Thy spirit bask'd in faith's effulgent beam. 

Dear young aspirant in that glorious strife, 

Where Nature triumphs o'er her prime desire^, 

While earthly changes to celestial life, 
And sensual passion to seraphic fire ; 

TTie kind ambition of thy Ghristian heart- 
Was from the vanities of earth to wean 

Thy soul, and hers, thy being's dearest part ! 
Train'd by thy truth for love's immortal scene« 

That scene is thine, for which thy spirit burn'd ; 

There angels welcome thee to realms above;— 
Here may they watch o'er her, who fondly learn'd 

The path to Heav'n j and learn'dit from thy love^ 



XIV 

Pardon, dear youth ! enfranchis'd now from earth ! 

If in the clouds that o'er this valley reign 
Too hastily, in feeling thy lost worth, 

I touch the source of thy terrestrial pain I 

Yes ! thou wilt kindly look on all below^ 

Who once w^e happy in thy warm regard ;— 

Bid them no longer fruitless tears bestow 
Upon the tombstone of their youthful bard ! 

Fancy yet sees thee smile, with fond applause, 
While Friendship's hand thy chequerM life 
portrays. 

And honour still from thee thy patron draws ; 
Thy spirit still is pleas'd by Jenner's praise. 

Thine was the wish through many a studious hour 
To raise, by moral verse, a deathless name j 

Exult, now gifted with angelic power ! 
In joy, beyond the joys of lettered fame I 

Now, widely witness, that thy youthful lay5 
To just devotion waken heedless youth ! 

And lead such hearts as thine, with grateful praise, 
To join thy homage to the throne of Truth. 

WILLIAM HAYLEY. 



CONTENTS 



Particulars of the Life of John Dawes Worgan If 

Letters, Sec. selected from his Papers 79^ 

Lines to the Memory of John Dawes Worgan . #42 

POEMS. 

Rhapsody, partly in Imitation of Tibulius .... 143 

Retirement, an Qde 147 

To Peace . 152 

Recollections of a Summer's Day . 157 

A Poetical Epistle to R. C. Dallas, Esq. occasion- 
ed by the Perusal pf his " Kirkstall Abbey ^^ a 

Poem. , 177 

Britannia, or the Politics of a Recluse 186 

Hymn from the Hebrew 192 

Epistolaad Johannem Ring, Chirurgum ....... 194 

An Elegy, written in the Year 1807 202 

Address to the Royal Jennerian Society ...... 211 

Series of Sonnets 221 

A Fragment 264 

Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of a young Lady 2^6S 



SOME PARTICULARS 



OF 



THE LIFE 



OF 



JOHJV DAWES WORGAN, 



W ITH the solicitude for posthumous reputation 
natural to aspiring genius, the interesting subject 
of the following pages devoted some of the few in- 
tervals of ease, which the languor and debility of 
his closing days afforded, to the preparation of a 
brief Memoir of his life. In this undertaking, how- 
ever, he was not able to make much progress ; 
what he wrote is now presented to the reader, with 
little alteration, as affording the best view of his ear- 
ly years. 



Among all the fountains of melancholy pleasure^ 
there is none so sweet and so unfailing as that which 
flows from remembrance. The recollection of par- 



18 

ticular sceriBi^ indeed, may be the source of plea- 
sure, unmixed with any other sentiment ; but he who 
shall sit down to review a diversified life, to retrace 
his progress through its paths, and to consider its 
events in their connexion with each other, will feel 
his heart expand with the most tender and sublime 
sensations. 

To him, who (in addition to this) shall consider 
what he is, and what he will be, the contemplation 
of life can hardly fail to be productive of emotions 
which human language would labour in vain to de- 
scribe. 

It is with sensations of this kind, which every 
heart of sensibility will understand, though they 
cannot be expressed by words, that I now attempt 
to recall the circumstances which have occurred in 
the days of my own existence. They are indeed 
of an unimportant nature ; they can boast no in- 
teresting occurrences, and perhaps they can yield 
but little usefulness. Yet there are those, to whom 
I am dear, who will feel an interest in every thing 
connected with my fate, and whose affection, I feel 
assured, will not expire, when the time shall come 
for my mortal part to return to its native dust. 
They will accept this hasty Memoir as no dis- 
pleasing relic. To them therefore (especially to 
my beloved and affectionate parent) I wish that its 
pages may be dedicated. And if in my endea- 



19 

vour to delineate the scenes of childhood and grow- 
ing youth, I may animate the broken intervals of 
time, when the return of a little strength allows me 
to act and to think — if my fancy may be enter- 
tained, my spirits revived — if iny thankfulness to 
the gracious Author and Preserver of m*y life be 
quickened, by a review of the benefits I have ex- 
perienced from his hand, and if my humility be 
deepened by beholding the continual errors into 
which I have fallen — then shall I indeed rejoice in 
the welcome consciousness that I have not written 
in vain. 

I was born in the city of Bristol, on the eighth 
of November 1791. My ancestors on my father's 
side had been watch-makers for two generations ; 
my father therefore (according to some law mi- 
known to reason, but well known in trade) was 
compelled to prosecute the family employment by 
a kind of hereditary entail. He was accordingly 
under the necessity of laying aside the object which 
he had ardently sought, that of attaining holy or- 
ders in the church of England, and was obliged 
to devote himself to an occupation which ill accord- 
ed with his inclinations and his health. By this 
affliction and disappointment, however, the humili- 
ty and fervour of his piety were undoubtedly en- 
livened in no light degree, and he continued, though 
in a private station, a faithful member of the churcli 



20 

of England. Such he was at the time of his 
marriage in January 1790. Pvly mother was a mem- 
ber of the Church of the United Brethren. The 
statement of these things is necessary, that future 
circumstances and expressions may be under- 
stood. 

In the parish-church of St. Mary-le-Port, Bris- 
tol, I was dedicated at the baptismal font by the 
Rev. T. T. Biddulph. I should not detail a cir- 
cumstance which must appear so trifling, but it is 
one Nvhich / regard with peculiar pleasure. The 
eminent servant of God, by whose ministry I was 
introduced into the Christian church (when a pas- 
sive infant unconscious of the benefit) has continu- 
ed an unceasing manifestation of kindness, in all 
the seasons and circumstances of my life. He has 
been uniformly prompt to act the part of a real 
friend ; to promote my interest, both in a tempo- 
ral and spiritual manner; to animate me in my 
studies, by such encouragements and such a por- 
tion of praise as he considered me capable of bear- 
ing ; and (what I esteem the most important of all) 
to show me my faults, with the most faithful and 
unreserved sincerity, united at the same time with 
the most tender and affectionate kindness. A series 
of friendly services of this description I contem- 
plate with singular satisfaction. Knpwing as I do 
by experience, what are the friendships of the world 



Sl- 
at large, knoAving that they are alliances of conve- 
nience, and that with interested motives they origi- 
nate and expire, I have learned how to value 
the few solitary beings, by whom the nature of 
friendship is still understood and its virtues still 
practised. And having such a character presented 
to my view, in speaking of my baptism, I must not 
neglect the opportunity of expressing my gratitude 
towards the person who has so eminently deserved 
it. 

At the expiration of my fourth year I am in- 
formed th^t I was capable of reading a chaptering 
the Testament; and the warm commendations, 
which were lavished upon m^ by my friends on this 
occasion, so stimulated me to fresh exertions, that ia 
a little time I committed to memory a considerable 
number of stanzas, from the Hymn-book of the 
United Brethren. From these spontaneous studies, 
to which I was simply led by infantile vanity, and 
the desire of doing more than any in my school had: 
ever done, very great advantages resulted* It was; 
hence perhaps that I acquired the benefits of me- 
mory^ which I have found so invaluable a blessing 
in my subsequent life. I may hence have derived 
that partiality to metrical composition which has. 
been the greatest of my earthly consolations. And 
it is certain that I hence imbibed that principle of 
somewhat like ambiticin; which has led tne to de« 

c 2 



22 

sire a pre-eminent degree of excellence in every 
pursuit in which it has been my destiny to engage ; 
and which has induced me, for the sake of honour, 
to support a series of labours, from which my incli- 
nations recoiled, in the acquisition of ancient and 
modern learning. But why dilate on these mat- 
ters ? Because they show the fallacy of a plausible 
modern argument on education, which I have often 
heard from sensible persons. Many suppose that 
children, till arrived at their tenth or twelfth year, are 
incapable of being impressed with permanent ideas ; 
that they may be taught to read, to manage a pen, 
and a little arithmetic ; but that the attempt to in- 
fuse a further portion of knowledge would be like 
the task of the daughters of Danaus, and would 
rather injure than benefit the mind. This notion 
might be answered by observations on the structure 
of the human mind. It is needless however for 
me to enter into abstract reasonings on the subject, 
since an example is here afforded, of one, in whom 
the memory was formed, and into whom a taste 
for poetry was instilled, and a wish for eminence 
inspired, through the benefits of instruction, before 
his sixth year was accomplished. 

The grand object of my parents in my educa- 
tion, was to teach me " how to live, and how to 
die." With the most affectionate ardour, therefore, 
they embraced every opportunity of instructing me 



23 

in the principles of religion, explaining, with sweet 
simplicity, the doctrines of the Christian faith and 
practice. I listened with delight, yet I must sin- 
cerely confess, that the impressions produced upon 
my mind were of a short-lived nature. While the ; 
rich streams of divine instruction were flowing from 
the lips of a father, my heart must have been cal- 
lous indeed, had it remained inattentive or unim*- 
pressed. But in the succession of amusing scenes 
the precepts were forgotten, and the gay levities of 
boyhood asserted and maintained their empire* 
Will it hence be inferred that the instructions on 
sacred things which I received in my tender years, 
were futile and unproductive ? Any such inference 
would be wrong ; for in after-years, when separated 
from my parents, when unblest with any .monitor 
who would act his part with faithfulness towards 
me, the admonitions which I had received at home 
not unfrequently thronged into my mind,, and ope- 
rated with greater force than recent exhortations 
have done ; since I attached to them an idea of 
sanctity, and thought on them with reverential awe. 
Although the immediate object of my early reli- 
gious instruction was not answered, yet its ultimate 
effects were as completely successful as my father's 
fondest wishes could have desired. An instance of 
this nature may be the source of consolation to 
parents, who, as they hitherto perceive no in» 



24 

crease from the sacred seed they have sown in 
the minds of their children, are too hasty in con- 
cluding that it must have utterly perished. 

I have now to perform a journey of thirty miles — 
formidable thought for a boy not six years old ! I 
must bid adieu to my " duke domum!'* and all its 
endearments, and to all my accustomed compa- 
nions. 

In short, I must transplant myself from Bristol 
to a little town in Wiltshire, at a school in which 
I was entered in the autumn of 1796. The num- 
ber of boarders was limited to six. The master 
was a good-natured, intelligent man ; so that I set- 
tled in my new habitation with a fair prospect of plea- 
sure and improvement. It happened, however, 
that the good-nature of our master was the result 
of indolence and inactivit}\ In passing over an 
error in the conduct of his^ pupils, his lenity 
might easily be justifiable ; but he passed over 
omissions in their learning, and faults in their tasks. 
This inclination to wink at our proceedings it may 
be supposed that we shortly perceived, and the con- 
sequence may be imagined. I do not mention these 
things with a view to censure my old master (of 
whom I have not much more reason to complain 
than of myself) ; but I wish that parents, in choosing 
an instructor for their children, would particularly 
inquire coneering him, whether he be a consciea- 



25 

tious character, whether from motives of duty he 
will strictly and faithfully fulfil his office. Such a 
commendation is preferable on these occasions to 
the most brilliant talents. 

In the neighbourhood of this school is a venera- 
ble majestic abbey, which has stood the storms of 
ages, and is now beautiful in decay. To explore 
its accessible parts was long my w^ish and resolve ; 
but my school-fellows, who were all my seniors, 
contrived to fabricate so many tales of horror, of 
ghosts who dwelt in the abbey, and of murders per- 
petrated in it, that I never had courage to approach 
any part but that which is dedicated to playing 
balls. And as to the dread of ghosts, it did not 
forsake me during many subsequent years, and was 
a continual oppression on my spirits. What cau- 
tion is too great to be used to prevent the sportive- 
ness of youth, or the superstition and ignorance of 
age, from filling the infantile mind with tales, and 
forms, and figures, which will harass it, till it is 
arrived at a state of mature reason ! 

Opposite to our house, there was a chapel of the 
United Brethren. It was there we attended divine 
service ; the simplicity of the manner in which the 
brethren expound the Christian faith, renders their 
religious meetings particularly useful and appro- 
priate to childhood. Having passed two years in this 
school, I returned home for a permanency. Even 



26 

then I had sufficient sagacity to perceive, that during 
my absence from home I had lost much and gained 
little. My ambition, the best principle that can be 
cherished in some boys to encourage them in their 
leaiTiing, was altogether lost. 

As my constitution began to afford indications 
of tenderness and weakness, it was the wish of my 
parents that I should receive instruction at some 
ischool in Bristol or its neighbourhood, where my 
health might be fostered by their care, and their 
feelings satisfied respecting me. But their wishes 
were frustrated by the perversity which began at this 
time, in an especial manner, to exercise its influence 
on my mind. At three schools I was entered, but 
would remain in none, conceiving against each 
some vehement cause of complaint, and acting in 
pursuance of my ideas with unruly and uncontrolla- 
ble principles of anger and pride. These are the 
principles which reign, alas ! so predominantly in the 
human soul, showing themselves at the earliest peri- 
od after any ray of reason has dawned. They evince 
the depth and the extent of our original corri\ption, 
the proneness of the soul to evil from the very hours 
of infancy, and its wide alienation from God. 

How abased is the condition of mankind, whose 
earliest ways are ways of error ! How unfathom- 
able is the compassion of our God, who mani- 
fests undiminished beneficence to such a race of 



^ 



27 

transgressors ! As to myself, when I think on the 
marks of depravity which my state of childhood 
manifested in the unmanageable character of my 
temper at this time, I have cause for fervent grati- 
tude to the benign Author of all good, for enabling 
me to struggle successfully against the natural pro- 
pensities of my heart. It is indeed a continual con- 
test: but when the soul is faint and weary, she can 
call for aid on almighty power : and she will not 
be left unaided till the warfare is oven Into this 
digression I have been led by the overflowings of 
my mind. My heart would not be content with a 
scanty tribute of praise to the long-continued mer- 
cies of my God, nor would it be satisfied with a 
slight mention of a subject respecting which it has 
so much been exercised. 

Amidst the perplexity which was naturally felt 
by my friends at seeing their endeavours for my 
welfare counteracted by causes which no human 
power could remove, and amidst their painful he- 
sitations in what manner they should dispose of me 
for future education, it chanced that I was visited 
by an acquaintance of my own age. He had for a 
considerable time been resident in the school esta- 
blished in the village of Fulneck (near Leeds, York- 
shire) a settlement or congregation-place of the 
United Brethren. He portrayed the school at 
Fulneck as possessed of unparalleled excellencies^ 



28 

minutely describing it and its dependencies, and 
decorating the whole in the most brilliant colours. 
My imagination was fired and captivated at the 
account of so enviable a situation, and I imme- 
diately besought permission to accompany my 
young friend to Fulneck. 

It may be conceived that such a solicitation was 
heard by my parents with a measure of satisfac- 
tion, considering the difficulties they had already 
undergone in seeking a situation for me, and the 
confidence which they naturally reposed in the con- 
ductors of the Fulneck school, as members of the 
same church with themselves. So important a step 
was however considered with due deliberation. At 
length it was determined that my request should be 
granted, and accordingly I bade a second farewell 
to my home. I was placed under the protection 
of a good-natured dissenting clergyman, who was 
travelling to the north, and the journey would have 
been truly agreeable, had it not been for its tre- 
mendous length of two hundred miles, and the 
rapidity, with which we travelled. At length, after 
three days journey, I cast my eyes, with united 
veneration and joy, upon the long-expected houses 
of Fulneck, and I found the ideas I had formed of 
them in fancy, surpassed by the reality. 

The village is situated on a rising ground ; it is 



29 

built in a straight line ; the chapel is in the centre ; 
the schools for boys and girls, the houses of the 
single brethren and sisters, and the houses dedi- 
cated to mechanical labour, exactly correspond- 
ing on each side. A spacious and public gravel 
walk appeared in front of the buildings. The 
space before the chapel, however, was prohibited 
ground, and constituted the boundary between the 
male and female domain. From the gravel walk 
the ground exhibited a gentle declivity, which was 
covered with gardens, both for utility and orna- 
ment. The huts of the extremely poor were con- 
cealed, that the beauty of the scene might suffer no 
detriment. This little district was purchased by 
the Moravians, that they might there erect a secure 
and independent settlement, in which none but the 
members of their own society should be permitted 
to live, except children in the schools. For a 
series of successive years, their establishment has 
flourished and increased. It now affords no incon- 
siderable advantages for the education of youth of 
both sexes, of employment for the middle-aged, 
and of retirement for those who have known the 
world and have learned to despise its follies. 

When 1 had visited the various parts of the village 
in company with the resident clergyman, I was in- 
troduced with all becoming ceremony into my ap- 
propriate room. It was not the custom there for 

D 



30 

the whole school to assemble in one apartment, but 
we were divided into five classes, each of wliich had 
a separate room, with two instructors : in addition 
to this we had masters occasionally attending, and 
the head-master was superintendant of the whole. 
Our advancement from room to room was guided 
by our improvement in learning, and the desire of 
attaining so envied an exaltation was a powerful 
stimulus to diligence in study. Our religious in- 
struction was as^much an object of attention as our 
other pursuits. Every morning at eight o'clock we 
assembled in the chapel, where a brief discourse 
was delivered to us in a style peculiarly adapted 
to children, altogether simple, and treating on 
those prominent parts of Christian doctrine which 
to children are most attractive, and which they 
can best understand. It was also part of our daily 
task that we should commit to memory two texts 
of Scripture ; and in justice to the masters of the 
establishment, I must add, that many of them were 
not remiss in labouring to further our advance in 
religious knowledge, by the benefit of their private 
conversation. From these opportunities of im- 
provement I derived much pleasure and profit : 
the advice which is affectionately whispered will 
melt the heart, and stamp an impression there 
which time in general is unable to efface. 

With regard to the nature of my pursuits in 



31 

school, they were such as are common. I went 
through a series of Latin exercises in company with 
my class ; but such was my aversion to the study of 
words, that I made no manner of progress in this 
new pursuit ; on the contrary, it was the subject 
of my rooted aversion. It may therefore be 
judged, that I remained in comparative ignorance 
as to the Latin language. French was afterwards 
introduced, but I found the cultivation of an ac- 
quaintance with words, whether from Italy or 
France, to be equally irksome. I therefore suf- 
fered my forced attention towards languages to 
give way to my natural impulse, and dedicated all 
my thoughts to the other branches of learning. 

In this way for two years (without any occur- 
rence that deserves notice) I proceeded comfort- 
ably with my instructors, with my companions, 
and in myself; and all my comforts were aug- 
mented by the particular kindness of the Rev. 
John Hartley, the resident minister, and (ex of- 
fficio) head master. I am happy in an occasion of 
showing that I am not unmindful of his past bene- 
volence. But though every appearance was so 
flattering, it was my misfortune to feel that, while 
my mind was improving, my bodily frame was 
seriously weakened by the inclemency of the cli- 
mate, in the winter season. In the summer, in- 
deed, my powers were recruited and my health re- 



32 

stored ; but, as my parents were naturally dissuv 
tisfied at my annual illness, they reluctandy re- 
solved on my return home, and my father accord- 
ingly came to be my conductor, and guided me 
-back to Bristol in the autumn of 1800. This 
journey was one of the most pleasant and useful I 
ever performed. As we advanced at leisure, we 
had opportunities of visiting the various works 
of nature and art that presented themselves in our 
way. I shall not easily forget the interesting 
objects I then beheld ; whether the mechanic arts 
of Sheffield and Birmingham, or the tremendous 
beauties of the Peak. 

But I must remember that I have not yet bid 
adieu to Fulneck. Within its confines some of 
the happiest of my days were passed. There was a 
predominant spirit of piety which produced a sfpirit 
of harmony and content, the benefits of which were 
experienced by old and young; for where there is 
real piety, there will be lasting peace, either with 
individuals or communities ; and the petty bicker- 
ings which may casually arise, will speedily be re- 
moved on the principles of Christian love. This 
internal tranquillity which prevailed in Fulneck 
was the source of no small gratification to a mind 
constituted like mine, delighting in repose ; nor 
was I less gratified by their artless exposition of 



33 

divine truths, which (as I have already mention- 
ed) we from day to day received* 

I turn with the most tender regret from the 
place where I received my education for twa 
years ; where I was treated with uniform kind- 
ness ; where my understanding and my heart were 
alike the objects of attention, and perhaps were 
equally improved. But it will not easily be obli^ 
terated from my remembrance. Its houses, and 
terrace, and gardens, are still present to my sight, 
I will converse in fancy with the dear individuals 
who condescended to administer to my puerile 
comforts. The scenes of pleasure crowd upoa my 
mind ; and when, amidst my present solitude and 
gloom, I wish to be refreshed by the recollection 
of happy days, I send my thoughts to Fulneck. 
There is, however, an honest principle in the mind 
of man when unsophisticated, which leads him to 
prefer his home to every other scene. Contented, 
as I had been during my long, absence, yet on re- 
entering the door of my parental dwelling, my heart 
swelled with indistinct feelings of gentle transport, 
which it would be no disgrace to the triumphant 
hero to feel, when returning from the field of glory, 
or the statesman from the councils of his country*. 
For the most exalted wisdom will ever be most: 
ready to cherish the tender feelings of nature ; and 
thoughj with philosophical enlargement of the^ 

D 2 



34 

mind, the sage may call the universe his home^ 
yet where is the heart that has not experienced a 
soft partiality to the abodes of his birth and infancy 
in priority to spots in themselves more alluring ? 
With such feelings I resumed my situation at 
home. The care of my health, during a most in- 
clement winter, was the primary object of my 
parents. 



Thus far did Worgan proceed in his own bio- 
graphy ; it falls to the lot of his friend to mark the 
dawnings of his genius, to trace its increasing ra- 
diance, and to follow it until the dark cloud of 
sickness and adversity shrouded it prematurely 
from further display and further observation. 

In January 1801, he was placed as a daily scho- 
lar in the commercial school of Mr. Pocock of 
Bristol, where he made considerable progress in 
arithmetic, and acquired a competent knowledge of 
geography, astronomy, and other branches of sci- 
ence ; he also improved his hand writing, and thus 
reaped advantages, which he probably would never 
have enjoyed to the same extent, had he been con- 
fined to the instructions of a classical school. 

It is seldom seen that superior genius can de- 
scend to pursuits in which mechanical nicety and 
precision alone lead to perfection. Some very 



35 

exquisite maps which Worgan drew, while follow- 
ing his geographical studies, and indeed the neat- 
ness and correctness of all his performances, seem* 
ed to point out a path, as the appropriate lot of his 
future life ; very different from that which his ea- 
ger mind afterwards pursued in ascending the ar- 
duous steep which leads to learning and to fame. 

He was at this time introduced to M. Desprez, 
an emigrant French clergyman, and a descendanl; 
of him by whom, " Trojce dum regnamanehanty: 
the editions of the classics, usually called the Dau^ 
phin^ were edited and illustrated with notes and 
interpretations for the use of his royal pupils. This 
gentleman had discernment enough to perceive the 
latent abilities of his young friend, and in impart- 
ing to him his own language (in which, through his 
care, he attained very great freedom both in con- 
versation and composition) he endeavoured to in- 
troduce a relish for literary pursuits in general, and 
certainly succeeded to a considerable degree. But 
Worgan's French preceptor was shortly after 
elected professor of that language in the Military 
College at Marlow, where he died ; and our youth 
himself was obliged to leave school, and though 
not yet twelve years of age, to bring to practical 
use some parts of the mercantile education which 
he had been acquiring. 

We must therefore follow him into a new scene, 



36 

as, in consequence of the indisposition of his father^ 
he was obliged, in June 1802, to become his as- 
sistant both in his trade of a watchmaker, and in 
his accounts. This he did with the greatest faith- 
fulness and alacrity ; and when, in a short time, 
his father became wholly confined, he divided his 
hours and attention between his sick bed and his 
business in the most exemplary and unremitting 
manner. The blessed end of his valuable parent, 
who died on the second of May 1803, made a deep 
and serious impression on his mind ; and^his reli- 
gious principles were illustrated by affectionate 
concern for his mother on so severe a loss, and the 
solidity and ability with which he arranged his fa- 
ther's affairs. 

In July 1803, he returned to Mr. Pocock's, with 
an intention of pursuing the course of instruction 
which he had commenced. But in January follow- 
ing, he revealed to his mother the wish he had long 
entertained of devoting himself to the service of 
God, by becoming a clergyman of the church of 
England ; and he therefore begged her permission 
to turn his mind to a classical education. His mo- 
ther, whose every care was centered in the promo- 
tion of his welfare, readily acceded to the request. 
They consulted on the subject their friend, the 
Rev. T. T. Biddulph (of whom Worgan made so 
affectionate a notice in his own Memoirs) who^ 



37 

expressing his approbation of his views, introdu- 
ced him to the Rev. S^^^ S^^^, who presided in 
a large and highly respectable school in Bristol, at 
which he was accordingly entered as a day-scholar 
without delay. 

Here he enjoyed great and peculiar advantages ; 
advantages which soon called into action those 
latent energies of his mind, which only awaited 
some favouring opportunity of starting into notice. 
The first of these arose from the depth of erudi- 
tion, and the solidity of judgment which were 
united in the gentleman, under whom he had the 
good fortune to be placed ; qualities which ren- 
dered him equally averse to a premature eleva- 
tion of his pupils to the higher branches of study, 
before the foundations of science were deeply and 
firmly established — and to a restraint of the laud- 
able efforts of real and aspiring geniue^ Another 
advantage of no small importance to our young 
academic, whose habits of seclusion had before 
entirely removed him from the company of young 
persons of his own age, and of liberal education, 
was derived from the opportunity now afforded 
him for association with such, and the stimulus 
which was thereby given to his future exertions. 

While Worgan was labouring with unremitting 
assiduity in acquiring the rudiments^ of classical 
learning, the higher divisions of the school con- 



38 

tained those whose talents and industry had laid 
open the rich mines of ancient lore, of which he 
had scarcely explored the rough and forbidding 
access, many of whom, to their surprise, found 
him, in a time incredibly short, arrived at a level 
with themselves, and able to contend with them for 
the meed of scholastic distinction. While he view- 
ed the idle and the dissipated with pity and con- 
tempt, his ardent mind sought and attracted the 
friendship of many, who were actuated by senti- 
ments similar to his own, with some of whom he 
maintained habits of social and literary intercourse 
till the time of his death, and to whom the recol- 
lection of that intercourse will probably form in fu- 
ture life not an ungrateful subject of frequent 
meditation. 

In one year and a half he passed through the 
regular stages by which a knowledge of Greek and 
Latin is usually acquired ; and at the expiration of 
that period was able to read with facility most of 
the books of highest rank. This extraordinary ra- 
pidity was partly the result of that unceasing per- 
severance which a regard to his future welfare 
urged him to employ, and partly arose from the 
abstraction of his thoughts from those minor 
branches of education which usually interfere 
with and protract the attainment of classical 
learning. 



39 

His papers bear testimony to the care with 
which he pursued his studies ; as they contain, in 
addition to the ordinary exercises of themes and 
verses, an epitome of the Roman history, another 
of geography,- and many translations from Justin, 
Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, and the Eclogues of 
Virgil, by which he familiarized himself to ren- 
dering Latin into his own tongue with fluency and 
correctness. He also devoted some of his leisure 
hours to the acquisition of Hebrew, conceiving it 
to be a principal duty of one who aspired to holy 
orders, to be familiar with the sacred records in 
their purest shape : he studied it with the vowel 
points. 

Having completed his course of education at 
school, in July 1806 he undertook, for a short 
period, the tuition of a son of Richard Hart Davis, 
Esq. M. P. of Clifton ; and in September follow- 
ing, having not then completed his sixteenth year, 
he was admitted as private tutor into the family of 
Dr. Jenner, at Berkeley. 

This may appear to have been an arduous un- 
dertaking for one so young, but his most intimate 
friends scarcely recollect him ever to have been a 
boy ; so early was his mind formed and his judg- 
ment matured. 

The following extract from a letter to his mo- 
ther, on being settled in this highly desirable situa- 



40 

tion, affords a pleasing view of his feelings at this 
time : 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 27. 
" When I reflect on the mercies I have receiv- 
ed, and the advantageous situation in which I am 
placed, I cannot but fall with humble gratitude 
at the feet of Him, whose guardian love has 
hitherto protected me, and I trust will still be 
exerted in my preservation. I send you a 
sonnet, which I wrote in August last, but which 
is peculiarly applicable to my present circum- 
stances : 

" Long has my heart, devoid of anxious fears, 
Danc'd o'er the winding valley's flow'ry green ; 

But now Discretion's arduous mount appears, 
And I must quit the vainly pleasing scene. 

Slow up the steep ascent, with trembling mind, 
My weary feet the sadd'ning road pursue ; 

Nor shall my heart unsullied pleasure find, 
Till Salem's turrets meet the raptur'd view. 

O Thou, whose arm with guardian mercy led 
My wand 'ring feet thro' childhood's giddy maze. 

Extend thy sacred buckler round my head, 
While op'ning life her various form displays, 

Till by thy grace 1 tread the blissful shore 

Where dangers, griefs, and fears alarm no more/' 



»■ 



41 

The decision of our young tutor on a point of 
considerable importance to himself about this time, 
sufficiently marks the ripened state of his judgment. 
A kind friend had made very flattering proposals 
to him for immediately entering at College, the 
object of his warmest hopes, endeavouring, young 
as he was, to push his way there, and lay the 
immediate foundations of future celebrity. He 
pointed out at the same time certain exhibitions 
and other advantages whence a considerable aid to 
defray his expenses might be derived, and en- 
couraged him to look to his own exertions for the 
supply of the residue. To a mind panting for 
academic distinction, what offer could be more 
pleasing ? Worgan, no doubt, viewed with delight 
the opening prospect, but he was not dazzled with 
it ; for mature reflection taught him that it was his 
true interest to check his youthful ardour, enjoying 
with patience the important opportunities of im- 
provement which his present residence afforded, 
and awaiting the time, when a more advanced age, 
improved abilities, and more general information, 
would enable him to enter on his career with surer 
prospects of success, and when the intermediate 
accumulation of his pecuniary fund would enable 
him to pursue it with greater ease and indepen- 
dence. He accordingly declined v^^ith thankful- 
ness the friendly proposals. 



42 

Many of the compositions of our young poet 
breathe the melancholy air of tender and disap- 
pointed aflPection, while some passages are en- 
livened by its more favourable views ; and he may 
appear liable to the charge of supposing, with 
Cowley, that poets oire scarcely thought freemen 
of their company -without paying some duties to 
love^ and of therefore ^' fatiguing his fancy and 
ransacking his memory for images which might 
exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of 
despair, which he never felt, and of dressing an 
imaginary mistress sometimes in flowers fading as 
her beauties, sometimes in gems lasting as her 
virtues," — a folly which Dn Johnson so justly 
ridicules. 

To rescue him, therefore, from such an imputa- 
tion, and to account for this tone of some of his 
poems, it is proper to state, that about this time 
his affections became really fixed on an amiable 
young lady, whose relations thought proper to 
withhold their countenance from the connexion, 
and therefore restricted him from her society, and 
in other respects opposed its progress. This con- 
duct produced an agitation of mind which accom- 
panied him through all the remaining stages of 
life, until he approached the borders of the grave, 
when his gracious God and Father was pleased to 
say unto his troubled soul, " Peace, be still !'* tran- 



43 

quillizing its every tumult, and filling it with the 
beatific vision of the joys for which he was about 
to exchange the thorny and rugged paths of his 
mortal pilgrimage. 

The following extract of a letter to his kind 
friend Mr. Hayley, while it affords a pleasing 
view of the genuine humility of his mind, and the 
increasing diffidence which increasing years and 
increasing knowledge inspired, describes with in- 
teresting simplicity what was passing within it on 
this unfortunate subject : 

*' I pride myself, my dear Sir, not a little on 
my having mustered sufficient magnanimity to pre- 
vent your flattering approbation from rendering 
me too bold, and inducing me to venture beyond 
my proper sphere. The historic poem, on the 
Spanish Vaccine Expedition, which you had the 
kindness to suggest, I had often before projected ; 
but I as often relinquished the undertaking, from 
a consciousness of my inability to do justice to the 
subject. The important caution, ^^ Sumite ma- 
teriam^^ &c. though it once '^ grated horrible dis- 
cord" upon my ears, is at present my leading 
maxim in every poetical attempt. Instead, there- 
fore, of endeavouring to wing my way into the 
regions of historic verse, I am content, for the 
present, to appear before you in the garb of aa 



44 

humble sonnetteer. From a centenary of sonnet*, 
which I have lately finished, I have selected a few, 
which I take the liberty of enclosing to you ; and 
if, my dear Sir, when you have no better occupa- 
tion, you would have the great goodness to favour 
me with your general animadversions, I need not 
say how much you would add to the load of obli- 
gations, which you have already conferred upon 
me by your unmerited benevolence. The melan- 
choly tone that pervades the majority of the 
sonnets, may perhaps be regarded as affectation in 
the writings of one, who has scarcely emerged 
from puerility, and it may be suspected that I have 
caught the fashionable rage for doleful ditties. Not 
a sentiment however have I uttered, which did not 
proceed from the bottom of my heart. Though 
young in years, I am old in the school of adver- 
sity ; and the lessons which it has there been my 
destiny to learn, from a long continuance of the 
sorrows that prey upon the heart, have rendered 
me callous to earthly objects. Though scarcely 
set out on the journey of life, my feet are weary, 
and I find the prospect of a happier world to be 
the only source of tranquillity and comfort amidst 
the miseries of this. Pardon an unwilling egotist 
for troubling you with this mournful rhapsody. 
My object is to explain the feelings by which 



45 

many of the sonnets were prompted, and to pre- 
vent your mistaking reality for fiction. 

" And now let me present to you my warmest 
thanks for the critical observations, with which 
you favoured me on my elegiac verses. Of the 
errors and deficiencies, which you kindly pointed 
out, I am fully sensible, and my own deliberate 
judgment has convinced me of many others. I 
daily congratulate myself, with increasing satis- 
faction, on my having resisted, by your advice, 
the solicitations of partial friends and the sugges- 
tions of my own vanity, which loudly whispered 
" publication" in my ear a considerable time ago* 
I find that the increase of knowledge is accompa- 
nied by an increase of timidity, which I hope may 
be a sign of improvement ; and he, who at sixteen 
would boldly have commenced an epic, at eighteen 
imdertakes the smalles^t composition with a degree 
of diffidence." 

But Worgan was not neglectful of his great 
object ; he continued his studies with vigour and 
success : a series of notes on iEschines and Pindar^ 
and a translation of the Poetics of Aristotle, which 
are found among his papers, prove, that, in apply-- 
ing to the " Grceca eocemplaria!'^ he spared vm 
profitable exertion. His enlarged acquaintance 
with English poetry now began to have its effect 

E 2 



46 

on his own versification, the productions of this 
year (among which were " The Recollections 
OF A Summer's Day," his longest poem) possess- 
ing a greater ease and fluency of diction than is 
found in some of his earlier efforts. He also studied 
the rules of his art with attention, and wrote an 
epitome of Vida's Art of Poetry. 

In the spring of 1807 he was afflicted with a 
typhus fever ; on recovering from which he visited 
his friends at Bristol, and in the course of the 
summer accompanied Dr. Jenner and his family 
to London. The intercourse which his residence 
there afforded him an opportunity of enjoying 
with many distinguished literary characters, while 
it was highly gratifying to him, assisted in the 
formation of his taste, added to his stock of in- 
formation, and enlarged his ideas. 

He returned to Cheltenham in the course of 
the year, and applied his leisure hours to the ac- 
quisition of Italian, promising himself, in the 
sweetness of Italian song, an ample reward for 
bis labour ; and he does not appear to have been 
disappointed. He was a great admirer of some 
of the sonnets of Petrarch, and intended to form 
a selection of them in English verse. But too 
strained an application, with the continual anguish 
of thwarted affection, were beginning to produce 
in our young friend the usual attendants on early 



and extraordinary talent. The fruit which shows 
symptoms of ripening before its regular season, 
too often changes its promising appearance, to 
wither and to die. Under the apprehension, how- 
ever, of such consequences, his state of mind was 
pious and pleasing, as appears by the following- 
extract from a letter to a friend : 

** An extraordinary determination of the blood 
to the brain vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
somewhat endangered my senses, and obliged me 
to desist from my studies for a considerable time ; 
and at present I have but partially renewed them. 
Thanks to the mercies of the all-disposing Power, 
the apprehension of danger is now entirely past ; 
and as the tranquillity of my mind is re-esta- 
blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
ner's advice, I trust, through the Divine blessing, 
I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
employments. And may the restoration of my 
health and of my mental powers be accompanied 
by a renewed dedication of the whole to the ser- 
vice of Him from whose bounty they are all de- 
rived, that, in prosperity and adversity, in sick- 
ness and health, in youth and age, in life and 
death, the Lord Jehovah may be my strength and 
my song." 



48 

A suspension of all study was the consequence 
of this attack ; which had not long spent itself, 
when, soon after the return of Dr. Jenner's fa- 
mily to Berkeley, in June 1808, he was again 
visited with the typhus fever in a naore violent 
shape than before. The effects of this last disease 
he never recovered, being frequently troubled with 
a pain in his side and chest, a slight cough, and 
constant indigestion — alarming symptoms, which, 
however, never produced in his own mind any 
strong apprehension of ultimate danger. A fort- 
night's visit to his mother in Bristol having again 
recruited his strength, he returned to his favourite 
pursuits with renewed ardour, inflamed with the 
prospect of his removal to college in the course of 
the ensuing year, for which he had made arrange- 
ments. 

In the winter he read Demosthenes, some of 
the tragedies of Sophocles, and added Longinus 
and Plato to the list of his Greek authors. 

During all this time Worgan was a prey to 
the anguish which the disappointment of its ten- 
derest feelings excited ; and his mind became thus 
so absorbed, that he was in a measure disquali- 
fied even for his accustomed application, until at 
length the faculties of body and soul equally 
yielded to the grasp of complicated wretchedness. 
What might not such talents and such industry 



49 

'have produced, had there been nothing to paralyze 
their efforts ! 

His friends having recommended him to yield 
for a time to the driving storm, and to discontinue 
any intercourse with his affectionate friend until 
appearances smiled more favourably on him, he 
acceded to the proposal, and on the eve of this 
separation addressed to her a most affecting paper 
of tender and valuable admonitions. Some ex- 
tracts from it are here introduced, because they 
cannot fail to interest the reader in favour of our 
young poet, and because they show that his at- 
tachment was founded on the basis of religion^: 
principle, and conducted with a propriety and 
solidity of judgment which, in such circumstances, 
would have done honour to more ripened yearso 



*' As I know not how soon the proposed ar- 
rangements will be terminated, which are to sepa- 
rate me for so long a time from the beloved 
object of my unchanging affection, and having 
many observations, on a variety of subjects, which 
I anxiously wish to express to her in a permanent 
form, I shall, as leisure opportunities occur, com- 
mit those observations to paper, for the purpose 
of presenting them to her, when the sad period 



50 

/or our parting interview shall arrive. I shall 
place them in her hands as a sacred deposit, ac- 
companied by my fervent benedictions ; and per- 
haps it may be pleasant to her to read them over, 
when she can no longer see nor hear from him 
who wrote them. 

" But how shall I begin ? My heart is so full, 
that it is almost unable to speak : and the tears 
that stream from my eyes (which all my pholoso- 
phy cannot prevent from flowing) almost prevent 
me from fulfilling the task which I have begun. 
But stay yourselves, my tears, a little ; let me 
describe to my love the feelings of my heart. 
Then will I retire to the solitude in which afflic- 
tion delights, and you may flow again unblamed, 
where no eye shall see you but the eye of Heaven. 

" My prayer will for ever be, that the mercy 
of Providence may eternally attend my beloved 
friend, to protect her from every danger, and to 
crown her with every blessing ; 

# # # 

that every obstacle to our happiness may be re- 
moved ; that, while we remain in the present 
sphere of being, our lives may promote the glory 
of our Creator, the welfare of others, and our 
own mutual comfort ; and that, when the period 
of our departure is arrived, we may meet again^in 



51 

a better land, to be no more separated. Such I» 
the prayer, my dear friend, which will unceasingly 
flow from my heart, and I feel assured that it will 
find an echo in yours. 

^^ You have often requested me to use towards 
you unreserved freedom and sincerity on every 
point. This you well know that I have invariably 
done I and ©n such an occasion as the present, if I 
make some friendly remarks, and dwell upon them 
with peculiar force, I feel assured that you will 
receive them as you have been accustomed to do, 
convinced that they proceed alone from the soli- 
citude for your welfare, which affection inspires. 

'^ To expatiate to you, my sweet friend, on the 
importance of properly dedicating your thoughts to 
the subjects which religion holds forward to the 
view, would be altogether superfluous. It would 
ill become me, who need so much instruction 
myself, to offer instructions to you on these topics. 
You know how indispensable is the duty of sin- 
cerely repenting of the sinfulness by which the 
best parts of our lives have been marked, and, by 
the help of Divine grace, of resolutely forsaking 
it. You know how necessary it is that our 
thoughts should be elevated above the perishable 
earth we inhabit, and that our affections should 
be purified and consecrated to the objects of eter- 
nity. Yet, conscious as I am of my own imper- 



52 

lection, and feeling as I do how difficult it is to 
subdue the force of inclination, and to act as we 
know we ought, I am convinced of this painful 
truth, that " it is not the knowledge of our duty 
which will secure the performance of it." From 
the influence of education, and the subsequent 
tenour of my^life, I believe there is no point of 
moral or religious duty with which I am unac- 
quainted ; yet, alas I not a day rolls over my head, 
in which my conscience does not tell me that I 
have in some particular either failed of acting as 
I ought, or positively acted as I ought not. When, 
therefore, I speak of the frailty of our nature, I 
speak of what I know of my own. Our hearts 
are weak indeed; but there is a consideration 
which I have found of infinite energy in aiding the 
resolutions of virtue. This consideration consists 
in a proper view of the principles of our existence, 
of the distinct nature of the soul from the body, 
of the importance of the one and the worthless- 
ness of the other, and the motives arising thence 
for the cultivation of purity in the soul, to detach 
it from the pollutions of the world, and to render 
it such, while it remains in its tenement of clay, 
that its separation from it, when the hour of death 
arrives, may be a matter of exultation, and not of 
dread. 

"Think on these subjects with the attention 



S3 

they require. How much preferable are they to 
all the ordinary pursuits of life ! Yes ! though 
the gay world may laugh at the doctrine, our 
bodies are nothing but mansions in which our 
souls are to move ; they will therefore shortly 
return to their native dust. But our rational, im- 
material, immortal souls shall remain for ever un- 
conscious of decay, in unutterable happiness or 
misery. Sensible of these things, how can we doat 
on the pageants of an hour, and overlook the sacred 
realities, whose importance shall know no end ? 
So powerful, my beloved, does this reflection ap- 
pear to my mind, that I shall take it as the basis 
of my arguments on every other point which I may 
have to notice. 

" As a concluding remark, however, on the 
subject of religion, I must observe, that neither this 
argument, nor any other of itself, is sufficient to 
control the stubborn heart of man. No; logical 
deductions and demonstrations cannot make us 
Christians. Humility is the foundation of reli- 
gion ; by humility we are led to prayer ; by prayer 
we are endowed with faith ; by faith we are taught 
to live above the world ; our affections are weaned 
from its trifles ; we feel a species of sacred in- 
difference towards its vain concerns ; the aspira- 
tions of the soul are directed to Heaven ; there 
its hopes are fixed ; and by faithful devotion it 



54 

shakes off the fraihies that cling to its nature, till 
at length, when its earthly duties are expired, it 
is translated to the mansions of the sky. Endless 
is this ennobling subject ; but I shall desist from 
further remarks, both because it would be super- 
fluous in writing to you^ and because, in the brief 
observations which I have already made, I believe 
I have included the sum total of natural and re- 
vealed religion. One remark, however, I would 
repeat, from a consciousness of its pre-eminent 
importance — that sincere devotion and humble 
prayer are the soul of religion, and constitute its 
most genuine criterion, audits most powerful sup- 
port. 

" And now let me descend from the grand prin- 
ciples of human action to the more particular 
points of conduct, which, though they may appear 
unimportant, if considered separately, are, in the 
^gg^egate, of no trifling moment. 

" I would speak first of society. We imper- 
ceptibly acquire the habits of those with whom 
we are accustomed to associate ; we imbibe their 
sentiments, and not unfrequently imitate them. 
Hence arises the infinite importance of properly 
selecting our company, since no language can ex- 
press the benefit we may derive from the society 
of those whose minds are well directed, nor the 



55 

injury we may receive from those of a contrary 
character. 

#^ ^ 

"A* W 

*' You can never want for the most animating 
recreations, while the beauties of nature and the 
pages of literature are open to your view. And 
if any hesitation should arise in your mind as to 
the propriety of the advice I have given, simply 
ask yourself what line of conduct will ultimately 
afford you the most satisfaction ; — to decline the 
general society of the world, and to seek pleasures 
from those alone, whose worth and whose affec- 
tion have long been tried ; or to go into the pro- 
miscuous companies of the weak and gay, where 
folly for ever predominates. But if you decline 
invitations, you may be deemed uncivil, be re- 
proached with foolish singularity, and be ridiculed 
by your acquaintance ! True ; yet if we wish to 
do our duty, and to lead a life of true happiness, 
we must dare to be singular, and endure to be 
ridiculed and censured ; otherwise we shall meet 
with double ridicule. We shall be laughed at for 
having been once what is called singular, and we 
shall be ridiculed stilt more for having been so 
weak as to be laughed out of our former resolu- 
tions. I know that these observations are altoge- 
ther needless to convince your mind of the justness 



56 

of what I have said. But I know also how many 
difficulties you will have to encounter in doing 
what you wish, and what you know to be right ; 
and therefore I am desirous to furnish you with 
arguments, which may fortify your mind. I know 
that your sentiments perfectly concur with mine ; 
but as you will have the sentiments of the world 
in opposition to you, it is necessary that you should 
be prepared for the contest. 

" And now to another subject, with which the 
ladies will say that I have no right to meddle ; but 
when writing to my long-loved friend, I shall take 
the liberty of meddling with every subject that 
occurs to my mind: — I allude to dress* The ge- 
nerality of females inquire not what is becoming, 
but what is fashionable, and by fashion they have 
long been led into the most glaring improprieties, 
content to make a sacrifice of delicacy, and almost 
of decency. To be sure, a lady thus accoutred 
does but imitate her associates, and is admired for 
her reputed elegance and taste ; but surely it sa- 
vours of insanity to court applause and imitate 
others, to the dereliction of duty and propriety. 
There is no sight on earth that disgusts me more 
than a female arrayed according to the laws of 
modern fashion ; by assuming such a figure she 
throws away the charm of modesty, which is the 
most lovely feature of female excellence j she may 



57 

attract a short-lived admiration by the appearance 
of her person, but she will never win the affec- 
tions nor conciliate esteem. I am not going to 
give you a long lecture on these matters. You 
have no desire of admiration, or of empty praise 
to direct you in your appearance ; I am sure that 
you will concur in my sentiments, and see nothing 
in them contrary to reason, however contrary they 
may be to fashion; I shall therefore say no more, 
except that I conceive that dress to be most be*- 
coming which is most modest, most reserved^ 
most simple, and most plain. You see how freely 
I tell you my thoughts. I am sure you will not be 
angry with me, but thank me for doing so. Nor 
is it a matter of indifference, as many who have 
no other plea are anxious to inculcate ; for it is 
by the manner in which we act as to externals^ 
that the internal state of the mind, will be shown. 
Those must of necessity be vain and foolish who 
yield in dress, or in any other instance, to the al- 
lurements of vanity and folly. 

*' The whole of these prolix and desultory re- 
marks cannot be more powerfully enforced than by 
a brief reference to the sublime argument already 
mentioned, of the distinct nature of the soul from i 
the body. This argument will apply with equal 
propriety to every subject. If the soul be of 
a divine essence, of everlasting duration, and ifi 

T 2 



58 

the body be but a machine which the soul is to 
guide for a little time, how important is it that 
the soul be exalted above the vanities of earth by 
the influence of religion ! How anxiously should 
it shun the degrading society of the children of 
vanity I How should it cultivate the pleasures of 
abstracted contemplation I How should it dis- 
dain to employ its cares in decorating the body, 
which will shortly go to the dust ! How firmly 
should it resist the influence of fashion and cus- 
tom ! In a word, how constantly should it labour 
to rise superior to the body, to the earth, and to 
all the objects of time ; and how should it, above 
all things, desire to be clothed with the garment 
of salvation, and thus to be found prepared when 
the Angel of Death shall come to remove it to 
the eternal world ! 

'* There is another point which I mention with 
more hesitation, and upon which I shall speak with 
more diffidence, since in that you will not be an in- 
dependent agent, but will proceed of course in a 
great degree under the direction of your mother. 
This is the education of your little sister. 

*' To suppose that this should be conducted and 
completed by you, would be irrational. But to give 
her the rudiments of knowledge, to direct her pro- 
gress in the paths of childhood, and to transfuse the 
principles of your mind into hers, must be to you 



59 

an easy and pleasing office. As the peculiar 
branches of female education proceed, I presume^ 
upon established laws, and are scarcely to be un- 
derstood by any but your own sex, it will be most 
prudent and most becoming in me^ to speak only 
on general subjects. Leaving you to guide her in 
secondary matters, as custom prescribes, I shall 
only notice what I conceive I may be allowed to 
understand, viz. the guidance of her mind : but 
even here I shall only suggest, and not direct. 

" Inculcate with particular emphasis, even in her 
present early years, how innumerable are the plea- 
sures and advantages to be derived from the perusal 
of the compositions of genius, that a love of read- 
ing may be fostered in her mind. This will be the 
best support and defence of her understanding and 
of her heart. It will leave her no hours of idleness, 
which are more fatal to virtue than even hours of 
dissipation. It will furnish her with maxims of 
wisdom, to guide her course, when she has no 
living adviser to consult ; and a mind thus furnished 
has resources for pleasure for ever at its command, 
and Knowledge will smile upon it, with Honour 
and Contentment in her train. In conversing with 
her on subjects of religion, I advise you never to 
suffer an idea to enter her mind, of the controversial 
perplexities which have disgraced the Christian 
world, and impeded the progress of religion. Tell 



60 

her simply this : Man is a sinner, and, as such, de- 
served both present and future misery ; but that, 
through the atonement which was made for our 
offences by the death of Christ, we may be recon- 
ciled to Heaven, if we forsake our sins, and labour 
to fulfil the divine commandments by such works 
as Christianity requires. 

"This is the Christian faith: teach her this 
alone ; never let her hear of Calvinism, Armi- 
nianism, or the other classes of polemic theolo- 
gists. Teach her that the church of England is 
the most perfect of all religious establishments ; 
let her therefore adhere to it ; but let her at the 
same time regard with a friendly eye, her fellow- 
creatures of every persuasion ; for universal bene- 
volence and love are the distinguishing features of 
Christianity. You cannot impress religious prin- 
ciples upon the mind too early ; yet you must 
watch for those opportunities, when she is in the 
humour of hearing serious conversation, and never 
say too much at a time. A few striking seasonable 
remarks, introduced without any formality, will 
produce a much more powerful effect than the 
most able discourse, if ill-timed, long, or formal. 

" Do not set her to learn chapters or hymns. — 
Religion will be disgusting, when it is enforced as 
a task. To children perhaps it should be held 
forth as a privilege, rather than as a duty ; for the 



61 

youthful heart recoils from every thing that savours 
of coercion. As to moral principles, they are in- 
cluded In religion, but I would advise you particu- 
larly to show her how important is one thing, for 
which (excuse me) your sex is not famous. I 
mean the keeping secrets, and detesting the exe- 
crable office of tale-bearer, and the flippancy of fe- 
male conversation, which often leads to slander. 
If she is acquainted with the failings of others, 
teach her to conceal and not to publish them. 
Teach her to venerate the name of aiOPection, the 
most generous and divine of all human passions, and 
let her look up to this for the sweetest pleasures of 
her life, as we, my friend, have done, and have 
not been disappointed. In speaking of education 
I am engaged on an endless subject, but I will add 
no more at present, except that you should rule 
your dear little sister by the control of affection 
alone, that she may come to you for instruction 
with joy, and not with reluctance. Thus, by the 
blessing of Heaven upon your labours, may your 
living sister resemble her who is now in a happier 
land, that thus she may become a pleasing and af- 
fectionate companion to you, till the joyful period 
arrives, when I shall claim you as my own. 

" From these remarks concerning your sister, I 
w^ould proceed, my dear friend, to a few suggestions 
relating to yourself, on subj ^cts somewhat similar. I 



62 

would advise you to cultivate an acquaintance with 
the French writers, which will perfect your know- 
ledge of their language ; but your principal attention 
must be given, of course, to the writers in our own. 
Do not read novels. I am not one of those who 
raise a hue and cry against them as the bane of youth ; 
but though they may do no positive harm to the 
mind, they certainly can do it no good ; and the 
waste of so much time, as the perusal of one of them 
would require, is surely harm enough to cause their 
expulsion from every library. On subjects of reli- 
gion, I would advise you to read nothing but the 
Bible, taking it as its own interpreter, and particu- 
larly the epistolary part of the New Testament. 
The history of every nation, both ancient and 
modern, I would wish you to read attentively. 
As to poetry, and works of general information, 
read whatever pleases your fancy, provided at the 
same time it is instructive as well as pleasing. I 
flatter myself that the works of the various writers 
with which I have had the pleasure of furnishing 
you, will afford you an ample repast in the lite- 
rary way. But, after all, to read is not of so 
much importance as to think. Seek therefore, 
my beloved, the shades of solitude, and cultivate 
serious reflection and contemplative thought. — 
When we are most retired from the world, we 
approach the nearest to the happiness of Heaven. 



63 

And by habits of solitary meditation, the benefits 
of reading will be doubled, the pleasures of occa- 
sional society will be heightened, and all the enjoy- 
ments of active life will acquire a higher zest. 

" From the care of the mind, allow me to 
descend to the care of the body ; a subject of less 
importance indeed, but still of very high moment. 
On this I have said so much in the days that are 
gone, and in my former letters, that I have no- 
thing now to add. By way of recapitulation, how- 
ever, let me conjure you, as you value my earthly 
happihess, and your own, let your health be the 
object of your unceasing care. 

^ 41, M, 

■vv* W ■W' 

" Follow this advice, my dear, with implicit 
obedience. I know it to be indispensably neces- 
sary, both to restore your constitution from the 
alarming injury it has received, and also to pre- 
serve it in health when it is happily restored. 
Anxious as I have always been concerning your 
health, I shall be a thousand times more anxious 
when parted from you. As you wish therefore to 
promote my peace, and to free me from distress, I 
beseech you take care of yourself, and attend to my 
solicitations, without deviating from them. 

^' On the familiar incidents of life, which are 
generally denominated trifles, but which, though 



64 

trifles in themselves, have no trifling influence in 
promoting the comfort or infelicity of the greater 
part of mankind, I have only one remark to make. 
When any circumstance occurs which vexes you, 
ast yourself, what you will think of the circum- 
stance, and how much importance will attach to 
it when a month is past ! Thus will all the 
mighty vexations of life dwindle into nothing ! 

" I would beg leave to enforce the whole of 
these desultory remarks, by a brief reference to 
the sublime argument I mentioned before, of the 
distinct nature of the soul from the body. This 
will apply with equal propriety to every subject I 
have noticed. 

" Thus have I, with the undisguised freedom 
of a glowing heart, endeavoured to portray to 
the dear object of my affection, the sentiments 
that are uppermost in my mind : I have spoken 
indeed without the smallest reserve. That she 
will concur in my sentiments, I feel the fullest 
confidence ; that she will undeviatingly attend to 
my advice, I am equally sure ; and I know that 
she will receive this paper with the same feeling 
with which I have written it, and that she will wel- 
come it to her bosom as the last token of affection 
which it is at present in my power to bestow. 

« J. D. W.'^ 

March 25^1809. 



65 

Having taken a violent cold in the winter, the 
[Hilmonary symptoms increased, and, towards the 
latter end of March 1809, a copious spitting of 
blood reduced him exceedingly, so that he became 
entirely a prisoner in his chamber. The utmost 
skill of his kind patron was exerted in his behalf, 
while his tender attentions, and those of each 
amiable member of his family, united with the 
presence of his mother, who w^as kindly invited to 
remain with him during his illness, concurred to 
palliate the disease, and render his situation as 
comfortable as possible. For a time, the malady 
appeared to yield in a slight measure to the reme- 
dies proposed, and he found himself capable of 
bearing a removal in Dr. Jenner's carriage to his 
mother's house in Bristol, about the end of May. 

The following interesting note was addressed to 
his friend Mr. Biddulph, from his sick room at 
Berkeley : 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

'^ Berkeley^ Friday afternoGn* 

*' REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

" I experienced a great disappointment on 
hearing that your visit to Berkeley was postponed. 
1 longed to have seen you, that I might have en- 



66 

joyed your convex'sation ftt^i rofv f4,n /3A*^«/5««vav. 
Your kind letter was, indeed, a most welcome' 
cordial to my mind. I need consolation ; yet I 
feel that I have still greater need of instruction 
and advice. Since then there is no prospect of 
my being able as yet to receive these from you in 
person, as I have often had the privilege of doing, 
may I solicit the great favour of you to transmit 
them to me by correspondence (that happy sub- 
stitute for conversation) when you have a leisure 
opportunity which you cannot better employ. I 
cannot but know how much you are engaged ; yet, 
if it be in your power to favour me with such a 
letter as I have taken the liberty of soliciting, I 
know that your sympathetic feelings will prompt 
you to write, particularly when you are told that 
he who solicits your advice * cegrotat animo 
mag-is quam corpore^ 

" This mental disease arises not from what poets 
call the * immedicabile vulnus.^ My tender dis- 
tresses brought me, indeed, in a great measure to 
my present state of bodily weakness ; but they 
now are all removed, and peace on these matters 
is perfectly restored to my mind. The source 
of my concern is this : After having laboured 
(since I have had the power of labouring) in the 
acquisition of knowledge and the pursuit of praise, 
I ponder on what I have attained, and in spite of 



67 

the glossy arguments of infatuated fancy, the voice 
of conviction will be heard, pronouncing that all 
is vanity. Here then I have no resting-place for 
my souL I seek it where I know it is to be found, 
but my thoughts are all dark and uncertain. I 
resolve to forsake the vanities and follies of former 
days, yet I cannot satisfy myself, whether this 
resolution proceeds from the judgment of the 
head, or the contrite feelings of the heart. I 
pray, not without earnestness, but am oppressed 
by the same mistrust, whether my applications 
are the aspirations of a sincere heart, or the effu^ 
sions merely of the head. You see my state, my 
dear Sir. I live between hope and fear ; but 
what I dread more than these mental tumults is, 
the deadly calm of a delusive peace. Pardon, my 
dear Sir, this garrulity. I can say no more through 
weakness. 

" Ever your most truly obliged 

" And affectionate servant, 

" J. D. WORGAN.'^ 



So great was the activity of Worgan's mind, 
that he found nothing so difficult to support as 
that vacancy of thought which was inculcated on 
him during his long conj&nement; and it was 



68 

found necessary, whenever he was able to sit up ^ 
at all, to allow him a moderate us of his books, 
for the purpose of alleviating the ennui which 
want of occupation produced. 

Before his illness, he had read with much plea- 
sure the Enchiridion of Epictetus (a convenient 
pocket edition of w^hich had been presented to 
him by his kind friend the Rev, William Davies, of 
Rockhampton) and he thought himself fortified 
by its philosophy against the adverse accidents of 
life, and the apprehension of death. That vo- 
lume, with a variety of other books and papers, 
was lying on his table when a young friend called 
on him during his confinement. Pointing to the 
Epictetus, he said, " That is a book with which 
I was some time since delighted ; I studied it, and 
thought myself, wrapt up in its philosophy, to be 
secure against all the storms of fate ; but the se- 
curity w^as quite theoretical, I have found the 
conclusions of proud reason to be very deficient 
for practical application. It is in the book of 
Revelation alone that the antidote to adversity is 
to be found. The consolation of a sick bed and 
of a dying hour must come from above." 

Soon after his return to Bristol, he inquired 
of his mother the opinion which the medical gen- 
tleman who then attended him expressed of his 
case ; and on being answered only by her tears, he 



69 

said, "Your tears speak ; I have thought for this 
month past that I should not recover ; I feel mjr 
strength gradually decreasing, and I know that I 
am in the second stage of a consumption. I must 
confess that I felt at the beginning of my illness a 
great desire to recover : I had just arranged my 
affairs respecting going to the University. Bright 
were my prospects, but how soon are they clouded! 
Oh, for entire resignation to the Divine will !'' 

Finding himself thus gradually sinking, although 
at times his mind was anxiously employed respect- 
ing the fiiture fate of his papers, and the oblivion 
which he feared would enwrap his name ; yet he en- 
deavoured to throw off considerations such as these, 
and to devote himself to the great work of pre- 
paring for another world. The desire af literary 
distinction appears to have been the last earthly 
propensity that he felt ; it had possessed a strong 
hold on his 'heart, but it was subdued. He bad 
fully perceived the insufficiency of that philosophy 
which an acquaintance with Plato and the other 
sophists had familiarized to him. He felt that 
nothing but a revelation from above could afford 
relief suitable to the case of depraved nature ; and 
the near view of a spiritual state of existence 
which he now had, urged him to seek reconcilia- 
tion with God, through the mediation of the mer- 
ciful Saviour of a lost world. 

©2 



70 

Addressing his mother one day, he said, " I 
have had a religious education, and I enjoyed it ; 
it was always a pleasure to me from my childhood 
to attend the means of grace ; I loved the house 
of God and the people of God ; I approved of 
the doctrines of the Gospel, and through restrain- 
ing grace I have been kept from the vices that 
young people are often drawn into : but all this is 
not sufficient ; I have been very deficient in the 
vital and practical part of Christianity ; I have 
much to mourn over, and I now feel, with death 
in my view, the necessity of a true conversion, of 
an entire change, a being ' born again.' I must 
know for myself^ my interest in that salvation 
which Christ has wrought or purchased for sin- 
ners. Oh that my repentance may be sincere ! I 
would not be deceived for worlds." This dread of 
self-deception affording prominent evidence of 
sincerity, was frequently and strongly expressed in 
various conversations which he held with his cle- 
rical friend before referred to. 

The following short note was the last which em- 
ployed his pen : 



71 



TO MR. T. S.BIDDULPH. 



U 



yune 30, 1809. 
Though I am sure, that my valued friend, Mr. 
T. Biddulph, will not forget me, though without 
the formality of a particular token of regard, yet 
I beg that, when I am no more, the poems of the 
Rev. Henry Moore be presented to him in my 
name. May the prevalent glow of piety animate 
his heart; and, from the admirable union of re- 
ligion and poetry, may the former be sweeter to 
his taste as introduced by the latter. May all his 
pursuits be sanctified. Amidst the occupations of 
earth may he watch and pray ; and may the object 
of all his studies be to promote the glory of the 
dear Redeemer. For the time will shortly come, 
when he shall learn (as /have done) that human 
knowledge, unsanctified, is an empty bubble, and 
that no wisdom will avail, but a knowledge of 
ourselves as sinners, and of Jesus Christ as our 
Saviour. 

" John D. Worgan.'' 



He was frequently in conversation with his 
mother, and often expressed his acknowledge 



72 

ments for her tenderness and affectionate atten- 
tions to him ; and would speak of the comfort that 
possessed his mind, even in the midst of afflictions 
so severe. " I have been," said he, " endeavour- 
ing to attain one of the highest Seats in the literary- 
world, but it is all vanity : I can now willingly 
resign it, to obtain the lowest seat in Heaven." 

Filial piety, indeed, formed at this time a most 
interesting feature in his character ; another, not 
less engaging, was his anxious desire to eradicate 
from his memory any injurious treatment which 
he had received, and to cultivate a spirit of good- 
will to all, accompanied by a hope that a similar 
disposition would be extended towards him by 
any whom he had the misfortune to have offended. 
" I have earnestly prayed," said he, " that God 
would remove every thing of an unpleasant nature 
froQ] my mind, and that I might, from my heart, 
forgive those few persons who have treated me 
with unkindness ; and I have been enabled not 
only to forgive them, but to pray for them ; and 
mv mind is in perfect peace with every one. I can 
truly say, I am happy, very happy.'' 

On the 17th of July he took an affectionate 
farewell of his younger brother and his sister, ex- 
horting them to shun the vanities of the world, 
and to devote their hearts to the service of God. 
He afterwards, with one or tv/o of his most in- 



73 

timate friends, received the Holy Sacrament The 
ceremony, as might be expected in such circum- 
stances, was peculiarly striking — solemnity and 
devotion marked the countenance and the conduct 
of the youthful saint, while he joined in it. 

He now felt that his prospects w^ere brightening 
every moment. The benighted inhabitants of the 
frigid zone, on whose plains the sun sheds not his 
cheering beams for many succeeding months of 
darkness and desolation, are said to climb their 
highest mountains, to watch with eager anxiety, 
and to welcome with grateful rapture, the first 
genial ray which gilds their summits. Such 
was the situation of Worgan ; from the eminence 
of Christian hope, he awaited with lively joy that 
day spring from on high which was about to dawn 
on his aspiring soul, to dispel the shades of mortal 
ignorance and misery, and to diffuse a mild radi- 
ance around his unfettered spirit through ages 
without an end. 

A hemorrhage from the lungs at length attended 
the other symptoms, and generally attacked him 
in the middle of the night, reducing him to the 
greatest state of weakness, and continually threat- 
ening suffocation ; by which it was evident he 
would soon be relieved from all his troubles. 
Observing his mother in tears, he said, " My be- 
loved mother, do not grieve, but rejoice ; I am 



74 

going from a world of sin and sorrow to never- 
ceasing joy ; my dear Saviour hath, in answer to 
our united prayers, perfectly tranquiUized my 
mrnd; every cloud is removed. Oh, thou God 
of compassion, great are thy mercies to me !" 
On the day preceding the night of his departure, 
being the 24th of July, he was very particular in 
an examination of the grounds of his confidence in 
the Divine favour. In the evening he said, " I 
am happy, inexpressibly happy ; and if it should 
please God to call me home to-night, I can now 
go as a poor sinner, relying on my Saviour's righ- 
teousness, and appear in the presence of God 
without fear or dismay •" 

In the course of the night, he frequently in- 
quired the hour, and was much employed in pri- 
vate prayer. At one he desired to be supported 
in his bed, saying, " This is about the time." A 
celestial brightness suffused the countenance of the 
dying saint, while, in tranquil confidence, he awaited 
his conflict with the King of Terrors. Within an 
hour afterwards the hemorrhage came on, and he 
exclaimed, " Gracious Saviour, help me — gracious 
Saviour, support me !" Becoming speechless, he 
expressed the comfort of his mind to his mother 
by a significant smile, and shortly after expired 
without a struggle or groan. 

'^ Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ; even. 



75 

so saith the Spirit ; for they rest from their labours, 
and their works do follow them/* 



In person Worgan was tall, and remarkably 
spare in habit; his countenance indicated great 
mildness and steadiness of disposition, but was 
not in other respects the mirror of his mind. A 
certain air of originality, however, sufficiently 
marked that he was not " in the roll of common 
men." His eyesight failed him early, and he was 
obliged, from his first vears of application, to have 
recourse to the assistance of glasses, both in read- 
ing and writing. To these he was so well ac- 
customed, that before he attained bis eleventh 
year, he could make use of them on any occasion 
with the composure and gravity of a man whom 
age had driven to seek this extraneous aid. 

In Worgan's character, various and opposite 
qualities seem to have been united. That his 
judgment was unusually matured, and his mind 
formed for deep and intimate investigation, ap- 
pears from the nature and intenseness of hiis 
studies, whilst his poetic effusions prove that he 
was alive to the soft and refined pleasures which 
flow from a lively imagination and delicate sensi- 
bility. 



76 

Yet he steered clear of the negligence of the 
philosopher, and the eccentricities of the man of 
genius, and attended to each of his various pur- 
suits with as n^uch method in his plan of study 
and diligence in his progress, as if it had been the 
only one to which he was devoted. He ex- 
perienced none of those sudden transitions from 
intellectual energy and inspiration, to inability and 
depression, which often mark the towering genius j 
he shone (if such an expression may be applied to 
one who was unheeded beyond his own narrow 
circle) with the steady light of the regulated planet, 
rather than with the short-lived flash of meteoric 
brilliancy. Naturally fond of retirement, and con- 
firmed in habits of seclusion by his thirst for lite- 
rary knowledge, he nevertheless enjoyed society, 
and was particularly easy and pleasant in conver- 
sation, which a very retentive memory enabled 
him to embellish by apt quotations and interesting 
anecdotes. 

He was reserved, and had an appearance of 
apathy ; yet perhaps there never was a mind more 
truly formed for friendship, or more keenly alive to 
the tenderest affections of the heart. 

Persevering industry seems to be the most pro- 
minent feature of his character : this, aided by 
the desire of literary fame, enabled him to over- 
come his natural antipathy to the study of Ian- 



77 

guages, and to attain considerable proficiency in 
Hebresv, as well as the Classics, French, and 
Italian. 

The religious education with which he was fa- 
voured, and which he appears to have prized 
(though perhaps he was neve^ fully sensible of its 
value till affliction convinced hinx.that this world 
ought to be a scene of preparation for the next) 
gave a bias of piety to his mind which maintained 
its comparative influence through life, even before 
he so felt the vital power of godliness, as to per- 
ceive the emptiness of all human attainments, 
honours, and enjoyments. Hence his standard of 
morality was pure and exalted, and hence arose 
the integrity and simplicity which marked his 
character. 

But the seclusion from the world which was 
the lot of his early life, whilst it tended to pre- 
serve his simplicity and purity, induced him to be 
too much attached to his own views and habits, 
and laid him more open to the pernicious in- 
fluence of adulation and applause which his talents 
excited, and which at one period produced a slight 
effect in his manners and conversation. He was 
certainly conscious of the superior nature of his 
abilities, and felt a confidence and complacency 
which led him sometimes to set too high a value 
on his own judgment and opinions* Yet to his 

H 



78 

natural good sense it must be attributed, that his 
mind suffered no greater injury from the sugges- 
tions of vanity* 

It is also to be feared that he had not learnt the 
necessity of restraining the warmth of his imagina- 
tion ; — ^his chief failing was an excess of literary 
pride, which might have proved a dangerous rock 
had his life been spared. But from every danger 
into which this ruling passion might have led, and 
from every sorrow to which refined taste and the 
keenest sensibility would have exposed him, he 
has been delivered; and, released from every care 
and every fear, is now admitted, in the mansions 
of the blessed, to those heavenly joys to which his 
devout soul had long aspired^ 



79 



LETTERS, &c 



TO MR- 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I HAVE to apologize to you for not exe- 
cuting a commission with which you entrusted me. 
I have not presented to — — the copy of Gre- 
gory's Father* s Legacy to his Daughters^ which you 
enclosed for her in your last packet to me. 

I called upon her a few mornings ago with the 
book in my pocket, intending to deliver it to her. 
She was not at home ; and for the purpose of be- 
guiling my solitude, while sitting in her parlour 
awaiting her return, I took out the book, and pe- 
rused a few pages in the concluding chapter. But 
I met with so many passages which appeared to 
me of an objectionable nature, that I deemed it 
my duty to return the volume to my pocket, in- 



80 

stead of presenting it to her, as I could not ho- 
nestly put a work into her hands, some of the doc- 
trines of which are of so ruinous a tendency. 

I conceived that you must have been induced to 
purchase it from the celebrity it has acquired, with- 
out giving it a perusal yourself ; and, accordingly, 
I have returned it to you, that you may dispose of 
it as you think proper on a further consideration 
of its contents. 

You express your surprise at my disapprobation 
of Dr. Gregory's popular work. If you will 
allow me to dispute your opinion, to which, with- 
out flattery, I ever attach the greatest respect, I 
will point out the passages which I think objec- 
tionable, and briefly state the reasons of my disap- 
probation. I feel it a duty incumbent upon me 
to give you my sentiments with sincerity, since, if 
If oil recommend the volume, your friends will con- 
sider its principles as incontrovertibly just. 

The design of the work is highly commendable, 
and it was doubtless written with the purest mo- 
tives. The youthful part of the fair sex have the 
strongest claim upon the notice of the moral philo- 
sopher, for of all other rational beings they have 
the greatest need of advice. But those admoni- 
tions can produce but little effect upon a glowing 
heart, and a vivid imagination, which dwell upon 
punctilios in the conduct, passing over the grand 



81 

principles of human action. This is the charac- 
teristic defect of Dr. Gregory^s work. It i^ re- 
plete with frivolities, and totally destitute of those 
convincing, irresistible arguments which come with 
energy to the heart. Read his chapter on Re- 
ligion, and tell me if your sense of the importance of 
religion is strengthened by the arguments there ad- 
duced. He shows the expediency of religion ; but 
religion is not a question of expediency — it is a 
matter of duty and necessity. We must be Chris* 
tians, not because devotion is a soothing compa- 
nion in our mortal pilgrimage, but because it is in- 
dispensably requisite to rescue us from everlasting 
perdition. But what is the religion Dr. Gregory 
inculcates ? An attendemce on public worship-— 
private devotions, and charitable offices. We hear 
nothing of the renewing change in the heart and 
life, which constitutes the soul of religion, and 
which is naturally productive of every private and 
social virtue. One consideration deduced from the 
declarations of unerring Wisdom will ever be ac- 
companied with more powerful influence on the 
mind than a thousand secondary arguments. He 
cautions his daughters to avoid religious conversa- 
tion in mixed companies. In many situations this 
advice may be correct ; but the honest zeal which 
advocates the cause of religion on all occasions, is 
preferable to the bashfulness on religious subjects^ 

H 2 



82 

which has long been so disgraceful a feature af 
fashionable societv. 

The succeeding chapters are interspersed with 
valuable observations ; but I regret that a man of 
Dr. Gregory's character should have spoken so 
mildly on modern public amusements, and theatrical 
entertainments. Nor can I agree to his exception 
in favour of tragedy. Do not call me a stern mis- 
anthropist. I am the strenuous advocate of innocent 
amusement; but the amusements of the stage are 
not innocent, either to those who afford entertain- 
ment, or to those who are entertained. I am there- 
fore at a loss to conceive upon what principle they 
can be vindicated by any man who entertains the 
smallest regard for the interests of virtue and 
piety. Strange that the most fruitful sources of 
immorality should be so warmly eulogized in a 
work, the proposed object of which is to enforce 
religious principles ! 

But my paper and my patience are both ex- 
hausted. I must therefore defer the sequel of my 
remarks to another letter. I trust you will receive 
my animadversions with your usual candour. Be 
assured that they originate from no other motive 
than the most disinterested friendship, and an 
anxious desire to serve the cause of truth. 
Yours, &c. 

John Dawes Worgan. 



85 



TO THE SAME. 



MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM happy to find that you are not dis- 
pleased with my so freely controverting your opi- 
nion, and disputing your judgment, in my last 
letter. I shall now, in pursuance of my design, 
and agreeably to your request, proceed in my 
animadversions on Dr. Gregory's work. Painful 
is the task to oppose the popular opinion, and to 
censure a composition which has long been gene- 
rally admired by a numerous class of readers. 

After calling in question the sentiments which 
Dr. G. has delivered on the subject of religion, 
and inquiring into the expediency of sending the 
fair sex to seek for rational and virtuous recrea- 
tions in mansions that are dedicated to the most 
irrational follies and vices, it remains to notice the 
advice he has given his daughters, on a subject 
which of all others is the most delicate, which re- 
quires the greatest discernment, and the most in- 
timate knowledge of the human heart. You may 
guess, without referring to the work, that the 
subject to which I allude is the forming con™ 



84 

nexions that are to be coeval with life. The sum 
total of all the advice that can be given on this 
tender topic is simply this, — Follow nature ; tread 
in the course which she directs, lighted on your 
way by prudence and delicacy. This is a matter 
of the heart, and consequently the feelings of the 
heart alone are to be consulted. To them alone 
we must appeal ; and when we faithfully obey their 
genuine impulse, we shall not be in much danger 
of falling into error. Yet, pitiful to behold ! Dr. 
Gregory's chapter upon this most momentous 
topic is totally dedicated to frivolous admonitions 
on trifling points of propriety and etiquette. His 
precepts are calculated to render the female who 
shall follow them a moving puppet. Fashion is 
substituted for nature, and a system of affectation 
and deceit is plausibly introduced under the spe- 
cious name of delicacy. But does delicacy require 
us to assume an air of coldness when our hearts 
are warm ? Does it direct us to lead a life of 
perpetual restraint in our intercourse with those 
who are dearest to our hearts ? and does it enjoin 
the female sex for ever to belie their own feelings ? 
Dr. Gregory advises his daughters respecting their 
conduct to the man whom they may prefer to 
others, — If you love him, let me advise you never 
to discover to him the full extent of your love y 00, 



85 

not although you marry him. This sufficiently 
shows your preference, which is all he is entitled 
to know. Execrable thought I The soul must be 
dead to the best sentiments of our nature, that 
could inculcate or could follow such advice. 
What is it that constitutes the felicity of the con- 
jugal condition? It is the mutual participation 
of every feeling ; it is the magic union of conge- 
nial souls ; it is the reciprocal assurance of unal- 
terable and unlimited affection* But, if Dr. G.'s 
doctrine be just, farewell to domestic happiness, 
farewell to that bo,undless confidence, without 
which affection is but an imaginary phantom and 
a sounding name. The unhappy mortal who shall 
act upon such unnatural principles will nip the 
roses of love in their bloom, but the thorn will 
remain for ever : for the moment we deviate from 
the path of nature, we enter into the labyrinth of 
folly, and our wanderings will terminate in the 
bitterest distress. 

There are numerous particulars in Dr. G.^s vo- 
lume which appear to me to betray a singular per* 
version of judgment; but I will not trouble you 
with further details. If the preceding animadver- 
sions be just, it will appear that this little volume, 
notwithstanding its popularity, is of a nature not 
simply erroneous, but highly dangerous on the ina- 



portant points of religion, amusements, and the 
highest and tenderest kind of friendship, 
I am, my dear friend. 

Yours very sincerely, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO 

# # # 

I HAVE sent you Hunt's Poem^s. Hunt^ 
when he published, was but sixteen, and his me- 
trical compositions are uncommonly good for his 
years. Originality of thought is not to be ex- 
pected from boys like him and myself ; and if we 
rhyme decently, the critics and yourself must be 
contented. I, however, am rather too prudent to 
challenge the approbation of the critics, since I 
have not yet been fortunate enough to obtain the 
approbation of my own judgment, which you may 
easily conceive is not hypercritical. Yet the pieces 
which I composed two years ago I have lately 
consigned to the flames, and it is very probable 
that my present compositions will meet with a 
similar doom before two years more are elapsed. 



# 



87 

TO 

# # # 

THE great cause of the prevalence of 
vice, is the facility with which the conscience is 
appeased, and its loudest remonstrances stifled. 
The wishes of the heart of man are naturally prone 
to error; and if he can find any specious pretext 
for his conduct, he will boldly follow the dictates 
of inclination. It is no difficult matter for the 
children of error to persuade themselves that their 
follies are virtues, and that their most culpable 
practices are necessary and expedient. We readily 
believe what we wish to be true. Passion lulls 
the internal monitor to sleep, and they dance 
contentedly alon^ the paths of death, persuading 
themselves that they are in the paths of rectitude, 
and perhaps of duty. Conscious of the universal 
frailty of the human heart, and the deceitful charm 
of pleasure, I look upon those who labour under 
its delusions with sincere pity and compassion. 

# # # 



88 



TO 



MY DEAR MADAM, 

THE poems and miscellaneous works of 
Mr. Addison I have marked as usual, and re- 
turned for your perusal : and I would recommend 
you to give them particular attention. They were 
primarily composed in Latin, and the originals 
are prefixed ; but I will be contented if you dili- 
gently read them in the English translation. The 
poem on the Peace of Ryswick is peculiarly ele- 
gant and animated. Boileau, a celebrated French 
satirist and critic, was accustomed to ridicule 
English poetry, and said that England was too 
stupid a country to produce any thing truly poeti- 
cal. Upon the perusal of this poem of Addison, 
he was so struck with its beauties, that he im- 
mediately altered his tone, and said that England 
might produce geniuses with uncommon poetical 
abilities ; at the same time he remarked, that Bri- 
tish poets are men^ not children: they cannot 
flay^ like the French and Italians, but they can 
soar to a height, to which no French or Italian 
poet ever attained. Boileau lived to see his ob- 
servation most amply verified: for, before his 
decease, Pope, Swift, Young, Thomson, Dryden, 



89 

Milton, Tickell, and a multitude of others, illu- 
minated the hemisphere of British poetry, and, 
after having surpassed all the moderns, nearly 
rivalled the glory of the ancients. The Descrip- 
tion of the Resurrection is a masterly production : 
the idea is taken from the Altar-piece of Magdalen 
College, Oxon : an accurate delineation of which 
is prefixed^ page 93, Of the other poems, I have 
marked the best. 

The Treatise on the Roman Poets you should 
attentively read!, in the original, if you please ; or 
if not, in the translation. The other extracts are 
marked. 

The Autumnal Evening's Ride is a most de- 
lightful poem. It was w^ritten by a son of Dr. 
Matthev/s, M. P. for Hereford, who died before 
he attained his twenty-first year. The rhyming 
verses at the end were written by his disconsolate 
father. The descriptions of young Matthews are 
so natural, and such a vein of sympathy pervades 
the whole, and there is united such a glow of 
poetical sentiment and imagery, that I cannot help 
thinking, that if Matthews had lived, he would 
have made one of the greatest poets this age has 
produced. 

The Beauties of Shakespeare are all to be found 
in the Elegant Extracts, and therefore I have de- 
tained the volume. 

I 



90 

Scott's Force of Truth contains an uncom- 
monly interresting narrative. He was progres- 
sively a nominal Churchman, an Arian, a Socinian, 
and a Deist ; at length, however, truth was tri^ 
umphant. By Divine assistance, unaided by hu- 
man means, he was led to serious reflection. 
Genuine conversion followed ; he was convinced 
of the folly and error of his former sentiments and |t 
life, and, through the aid of Him who alone can 
order the unruly wills and affections of sinful men, 
he continues to this day a zealous champion of the 
Christian Church. May God impart unto us a 
similar blessing ! May we (as we read) feel the 
force of truth^ and act agreeably to its precepts ! 
The Sermons on Repentance, at the end, deserve 
your serious notice. 

My Italian proceeds but languidly. This dull 
weather stupifies me. I find it, however, a charm- 
ing language, and the better I understand it, the 
more I admire it. I hope you will set me an 
example of diligence, by prosecuting your French ; 
for, as you have no Hebrew interruptions, you 
have now no excuse. My Grammar is nearly 
stationary : it will be finished in a month, instead 
of a week ; for I am grown unaccountably lazy. 

J. D. W. 



b^^ 



91 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE JUVENILE 
REPOSITORY. 

December 20, 1807. 

MR» EDITOR, 

IN your ^^ Review of the Improvements 
in scientific Knowledge^ since the Commencemenv 
of the eighteenth Qentuinj^^ you have justly ob- 
served, that ^^the literary taste of the present 
day is certainly degenerated ; — that instances of 
solid learning are very rare^ while a kind of ge* 
neral and superficial knoxvledge^ draxvn from 
Encyclopcedtas^ and other similar publications^ 
is very universally Allow me to specify a few 
peculiar absurdities into which men are frequently 
led by the superficial knowledge of which you coin- 
plain, and to notice its causes and effects. 

The extensive diffusion of knowledge through 
every circle of society, which has been effected by 
the multitudes of alluring literary and scientific 
publications produced in the last century, has 
completely disarmed learning of the terrors in 
v/hich it was formerly arrayed, and rendered a 
tolerable smattering of the most celebrated authors 
indispensably necessary to a fashionable and polite 
education. The numberless Magazines, Epitomes^ 
Selections, Beauties, Reyiews, Essays, Sec. &c, &c« 



92 

which are perpetually issuing from the press, are 
perused with avidity by many who would have 
started aghast at the sight of the folios and quartos 
which frov/ned in the libraries of our great-grand- 
fathers. The beneficial effects of these pleasing 
publications are easily discernible ; for, to the 
credit of the present age be it spoken, most of 
our beaux can write their amatory epistles without 
Entick lying at their elbow, and half of the modern 
fine ladies can venture to send an invitation-card 
without the assistance of Dyche, Dilvvorth, or 
the Polite Letter-writer. For the most ignorant 
cannot rest contented unless they can converse and 
write without flagrant errors ; and those who can 
gabble with the greatest volubility, tell the most 
incredible tales, or write with the greatest fluency, 
are sure to be esteemed the most learned men, 
and the most agreeable and entertaining com- 
panions. 

The course of my acquaintance has led me to 
notice one species of learned absurdity which is 
peculiarly ridiculous. This is the inordinate desire 
for quotations, or rather mis-quotations, which 
influences the tongue of every man whose know- 
ledge has reached to Enfield's Speaker. The co- 
pious list of detached sentences prefixed to that 
work, the subjects for themes which are given to 
school-boys, or college-boys, and the mottos of 



essays and novels, are sufficient to supply the mini 
with inexhaustible stores, from which the Aiirecc 
Sentential may be drawn at will, either in epis- 
tolary writings, in works designed for the public, 
^r in conversation. 

I received the other day a letter from a worthjr 
and sensible friend, in which he expatiated on 
affiictions which he had been recently called to 
sustain. "However," concluded he, *^as Dryden 
has finely remarked, 

To hope for perfect happiness is vain. — - 

And I have fully experienced the truth of Dn 
Young's beautiful observation in his Night 
Thoughts, 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomou% 

Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.'' 

A pleasant volume of poems, entitled Visions 
of Memory, was some time ago published at Ply- 
mouth, the motto to which is 

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juva dunn~ 

Ho^RACEV 

I have seen those well-known lines^ ^'UMma 
temper expectanda dies^os^c.^^ quoted and ascribed 
sieverally to Horace, Virgil, Lucretius,, Statius^.* 

J 2. ' ^'-'^ "^ 



94 

Liican, and Ausonius; but seldom ascribed to 
their real author. I have heard " ^is talia 
fando^'* and the subsequent verses, quoted as be- 
longing to Cicero ; and (which is perhaps the apex 
of absurdity) a person who generally passes for a 
classical scholar and a judicious critic, mentioned 
in conversation the other morning, that energetic 
line of Pindar, 

Hie murus aheneus esto, &c. ! I 

With respect to works of genius, particularly of 
poetry, an equal pretension to knowledge, and 
almost equal ignorance, prevail. I was told this 
evening by a gentleman, that there was no poem 
which delighted him so much as Pope's Deserted 
Village. '* The account of Auburn, and the minute 
descriptions of its scenes,'' said he, " are beautiful. 
I wonder how Pope could write so feelingly ; for 
sublimity and pathos, however," added he, " there 
is nothing, in my opinion, superior to Goldsmith's 
Elegy in the Country Church yard. That is 
a fine line of his : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'* 

A thousand similar examples could be adduced : 
l)ut that it is needless. It would only exhaust the 
^tience of the reader, and weary the writer. The 
iastances already mentioned are, however, suffi- 



95^ 

cient to evince the invariable accuracy of Pope*fe 
cfbservation, 

A little learning is a dangerous thing^ : 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. 

^ ^ ^ 



TO MR. HENRY BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham^ February 27 y 1808* 

MY DEAR HENRY^ 

MOST sincerely do I congratulate you 
on the happy alteration which has lately taken 
place in the studies that are destined in future to 
occupy your attention. The pursuits to which 
you are at present devoted, are adapted to what 
I always conceived to be the turn of your mind^ 
The pleasures they afford are the most exalted, 
the most permanent, and the most satisfactory: 
and the pure delights attendant on the office of a 
faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, must more than 
counterbalance the advantages of the concern 
which you have wisely relinquished. In the plea- 
sure I feel on this occasion, I candidly confesj^ 
that I am somewhat selfish j for I am not a little 
orejoked in the idea, that in all prooability we 



96 

may one day become fellow-students, and perhaps- 
fellow-ministers. And while we are engaged in 
the acquisition of that knowledge, which is neces- 
sary for our future life, and are secluded in the 
bowers of Academus, I may indulge a reasonable 
hope that we shall be able to renew and to im- 
prove that friendship, which afforded me so much 
pleasure in the noisy mansions at the Fort. In 
childhood we spent many cheerful hours together. 
We knelt together in the temple of the Lord of 
Hosts, and solemnly dedicated ourselves to his 
service ; and I trust we may hereafter be enabled 
to join together in unwearied exertions to fulfil 
the awful engagements into which we jointly en- 
tered, and unite in devoting the noblest faculties 
and purest energies of our souls to the glory of 
Him, from whose unmerited bounty they were 
derived. 

Will you permit me to inquire what authors 
you are at present reading, and what course of 
stucly you follow ? I envy your secluded situation, 
and the facilities you enjoy. I am obliged ex- 
clusively to depend upon my own resources, which 
are not over-numerous ; so that of late I have 
read little, except Mounteney's Demosthenes, and 
Pearce's Longinus, and thatsublimer volume which- 
teaches us how to live, and how to die. 

It not unfrequently happens that I fall in with- 



97 

some of our old school-fellows. I lately met 

with , who tells me that he goes to a large 

school in the vicinity of . His friends, I 

find, intend to do him up into an honourable parson, 
and he is shortly going to Oxford. 

May I take the liberty o'f asking, at what period 
you purpose removing to college? My own re- 
moval is destined (as far as circumstances at pre- 
sent enable me to judge) for October 1809. 
You will probably take the start of me. 

When you have a leisure moment, I need not 
tell you how great a satisfaction a letter from you 
would always afford me. Accept the assurances 
of my sincere regard, and believe me to be, 
Most truly and affectionately yours, 

John Dawes Worgan* 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham^ Februari/ 1808* 

EEV. AND DEAR SIR, 

ON communicating to Dr. Jenner your 
description of the appearances that followed vac- 
cine inoculation in the arm of your little girl, he 
requested me to inform you, that he is at present 
fully satisfied that the former inoculation was pro- 



98 

perly efficacious. In fulfilling this request, I 
eagerly embrace the opportunity of returning my 
grateful acknowledgments for your truly obliging 
letter ; for the sentiments of friendship which it 
breathed, and the excellent adv^ice which it con- 
tained* 

My thoughts, as you know, have been ha- 
rassed in the most distressing manner by a variety 
of concurring evils, particularly by one^ of a tender 
nature, which has probed my heart to the bottom. 
I stand in a painful dilemma between doubt and 
hope, between appearance and uncertainty, be- 
tween duty and inclination. My heart, however, 
is inspired with a lively confidence, that the Air 
mighty Disposer of the affairs of men will con- 
tinue to direct my course. May He, whose will 
I humbly desire to perform, alleviate the pangs of 
grief, and solace my desponding soul with the 
prospect of brighter joys, and of a happiness more 
permanent and sublime ! My times are in his 
hand. May He deliver me from those whose 
hearts are set on vanity ; and, above all, may He 
deliver my own heart from vanity ! 

^ ^ ^ 

The printed poem, which I have taken the 
liberty of enclosing, is to be read before the Royal 
Jennerian Society, on their anniversary festival,, 



99 

May 17 J which is Dr/ Jenner's birth-day, and is 
regularly commemorated by a splendid dinner at 
the Crown and Anchor Tavern ; on which occa- 
sion the Duke of York ordinarily presides. In a 
poem to be presented on such an occasion, before 
such a company, you may naturally conceive that 
I should wish to attain the greatest possible ac- 
curacy. A person who writes upon a contested 
subject should possess the eyes of Argus, to 
detect the slightest inaccuracies, since a chosen 
band SiYC sworn in, to ridicule and revile him. 
This consideration induces me to entreat my 
friends to exercise the greatest critical severity, in 
granting my verses the most thorough scruttniza- 
tiony and to notice the most trivial errors. And 
if, when you have a leisure moment, you would 
have the great goodness to review them with a 
critical eye, and to favour me with your observa- 
tions upon them, you would confer a particular 
obligation upon me, in addition to the many, 
under which your kindness has already laid me. 
And I should feel equally indebted to your son, 
and to Miss , if they would furnish me with 

any animadversions upon them, and freely ex- 
punge, correct, or amplify. 

I was most truly rejoiced to hear of my friend 
Henry's determination to forsake the pursuits of 
mercantile life, for studies of a nobler tendency : 



100 

and I must confess that I am somewhat seliish in 
my feelings of joy on the occasion; since I may, 
not unreasonably, indulge an expectation, that we 
may one day be united in our academical occupa- 
tions, and renew that friendship which formerly 
afforded me so much pleasure in the busy hours of 
childhood. 

An extraordinary determination of blood to the 
brain, which vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
somewhat endangered my senses, obliged me to 
desist from my studies for a considerable time, 
and at present I have but partially renewed them. 
Thanks to the mercies of the All-disposing Power, 
the apprehension of danger is now entirely past : 
and, as the tranquillit}' of my mind is re-esta- 
blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
ner's advice, I trust, through the divine blessing, 
I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
employments. And may the restoration of my 
health, and of my mental powers, be accompanied 
by a renewed dedication of the whole to the service 
of Him, from whose bounty they are derived, that 
in prosperity and adversity, in sickness and healthy 
in youth and age, in life and death, the Lord Je- 
hovah may be my strength and my song. I feel 
myself placed in a dangerous path, with allure- 
ments on each side. May his grace be sufficient 
for me, and guide my steps in the " narrow way." 



101 

Pardon me, my dear Sir, for having obtruded 
up6n your time and patience by so long and inco- 
herent a scrawl. Let me once more beg you to 
remember me at the throne of grace, and believe 
me to be 

Your highly oi3liged, and ever faithful servant, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



ro MR. D. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley^ November 24, 1808. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

YOUR letters of October the 6th, and of 
the 18th instant, I have not till this week received^ 
by a strange delay, for which I am unable to ac- 
count. I embrace the earliest opportunity of ac- 
knowledging their arrival, and also of informing 
you that Dr. Jenner returned to this place yes- 
terday evening. 

I am not at all surprised to hear of your having 
renounced your Hebrew for Italian studies; and 
the imputation of Jickkness^ which you bring 
against yourself, is equally applicable to me ; for, 
after I had a little regaled myself with the beau- 
ties of the Italian poets, I must candidly confess 

K 



102 

that the Hebrew appeared a dull and cheerless 
pursuit. As I had few opportunities of procur- 
ing books, when I began learning Italian, I was 
obliged to confine myself to the use of Baretti's 
Dictionary, and the Grammar prefixed to it, 
Baretti, taken all in all, is perhaps superior to 
any other writer on the Italian language. In many 
grammatical points, however, I found him so de- 
ficient, that I was induced to have recourse to 
Graglia's Grammar and Exercises, which an- 
swered my utmost wishes, and which (if you have 
not seen them) you would find particularly useful. 
My Italian library consisted of Pastor Fido, 
Petrarch, and Metastasio. As there was little 
congenial to my fancy in the works of Metastasio, 
or in the Pastor Fido, I confined my attention to 
Petrarch's Sonnets, which I read and re-read with 
increasing admiration, and of some of which it is 
my intention to attempt an English version. Have 
you ever met with a translation of them ? I have 
seen but one, and that is intolerably dull, and 
shamefully perverts the meaning of almost every 
sentence. Should you know of any translation, I 
shall be much obliged to you to acquaint me with 
the names of the author and the publisher. And, 
as my knowledge of the Italian is as yet but very 
partial, and I am anxious to improve it, I should 
esteem it a favour, if, when you have a leisure hour, 



103 

you would be kind enough to inform me what ele- 
mentary works you use, and if you know of any 
dictionary preferable to Baretti's, and also if you 
have adopted any particular plan of study. 
Believe me to be, dear Sir, 

Most sincerely yours, 

John Dawes Worgam* 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham^ March 29, 1808. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

AS so favourable an opportunity of send- 
ing a letter to Bristol has unexpectedly occurred, 
I cannot resist the temptation of once more adding 
to the daily troubles of your correspondence, by 
returning you my most sincere thanks for the judi- 
cious animadversions with which you honoured the 
Jennerian Address. In the propriety of the major 
part of your friendly remarks, I most fully and 
gratefully coincide. Yet there is one, which 
brings against me an impeachment of high crimes 
and juisdemeanoiirs^ and of disloyalty to the su» 
preme Potentate ;— an impeachment, which in jus- 
tice to myself I must take the liberty of contro- 



104 

verting, and offer an explanation in my own de- 
fence. 

In one part of the poem I have said : 

In vain would Envy, widi her venal sword, 
Assail that name by distant climes adored. 

Upon this passage you inquire, ^^ By what other 
xvord can the worship of the Supreme Being- be 
expressed T"^ The tenour of this observation is un- 
doubtedly correct. But this adoration of Dr. 
Jenner is not an hyperbolical phantom of my own 
creation, but an indubitable fact, narrated by Dr. 
Ballhorn and Mr. Stromeyer of Hanover, in 
their writings on Vaccination. On may 17th, Dr. 
Jenner's birth-day, a universal holiday is regularly 
proclaimed in many of the towns and villages of 
Germany, particularly in the neighbourhood of 
Hanover. A kind of altar is erected, on which 
Dr. Jenner's bust is placed, adorned with roses 
and garlands. On the front of the altar is in- 
scribed " Vivo de matrihus^ de pueris^ de populis 
bene merito*"^^ The trumpets sound. Cows, co- 
vered with wreaths, are led in triumph. The in- 
habitants of the town then advance in procession, 
dressed in uniform, and having Dr. Jenner's head 
impressed upon their buttons. They then dance 
round the altar, and conclude by singing their 
grateful songs to the name of Jenner. Far be it 



10 5 

from me to entertain an opinion, that such an ex- 
ample is worthy of our imitation. We have en- 
joyed our superior religious advantages to little 
purpose, if we are not deeply conscious that our 
thanksgivings for every blessing should be exclu- 
sively addressed to the great First Cause of all. 
I simply alluded to the circumstance as an exem- 
plification of the proverb, '^ A prophet shall re-- 
ceive honour, except in his native country." Go 
to London, and we find Dr. Jenner's character 
depreciated by invidious and malicious individuals* 
Cross the German Sea, and we find him adoredo 
Perhaps it may not be amiss to insert a note at 
the conclusion of the poem, containing an ex- 
planation of the custom to v/hich the allusion is 
made. 

And now, my dear Sir, you must permit me to 
enter my protest against one part of your note, in 
which you do most sadly calumniate one of the 
best and dearest of my friends. You say, ^^ that 
he is no poety nor the son of a poetJ'' Who was 
that person who some years ago published ^^ OrU 
ginal Poems ^'^ and an Elegy on Mr. Cadogan's 
death } Was he a relation of your family, or was 
it merely a coincidence of name ? Sapientes sa- 
pientiam suam ignorant • 

For the good wishes you have kindly expressed 
for my welfare, I feel myself more indebted to 

K 2 



106 

your partiality than I am capable of acknowledg- 
ing. Their value is particularly enhanced by the 
consideration that they relate to my eternal, as 
well as my temporal happiness. Your exertions 
for my temporal advantage have been crowned 
with success far beyond my expectations or de- 
serts. May your wishes for my spiritual welfare 
be equally accompanied with the blessing of Him, 
who can turn the rock into a standing water, and 
the flint into a fountain of waters I 

Believe me to be your ever faithful servant, 

J. D. W. 



TO 

December 1808. 

^ ^ ^ 

I HAVE just received a letter, which in- 
forms me of a most melancholy accident which 
has happened to one of the dearest of my friends. 
By a wonderful congeniality of disposition, we 
were united in the firmest friendship ; I loved him 
as a brother. He was riding out a few days ago, 
when his horse started, threw him, and dragged 
him rapidly along, till his skull was fractured. He 



107 

languished in unutterable agonies for eight days, 
and expired on Sunday morning. Young as I am^ 
I am sick of life. I see the friends of my heart se- 
parated from me by the cruel hand of death, or the 
more cruel hand of malice. My joys are rapidly 
departing, my sorrows continually increase. Oh 
life I what art thou but a thorny wilderness ? The 
expectation of a future life is the only consolation 
I can find to support me in the miseries of this* 
Some few years Imust linger in this vale of tears ; 
but my journey wnll soon be over. It will not be 
long before my heart shall cease to throb, and my 
pulse to beat. Oh ! while the blood yet circulates 
in my veins, may my affections be set upon another 
and a better world, where long- separated friends 
shall be united to part no more, and shall dwell in 
the fulness of everlasting delight ! Adieu. 

J. D. W* 



TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley^ December 14, 180B. 

BEAK SIR, 

MY best thanks are due to you, for your 
two obliging letters, and their very interesting con? 
tents. I was much gratified by the perusal of 



108 

your aniaiated tribute to the memory of poor dear 
CoUings. His melancholy doom prompted the 
following effusion, with a sight of which perhaps 
you will not be displeased. 

SONNET. 

OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN DEATH OF A YOUTH- 
FUL FRIEND. 

Child of the dawn, with sparkling dew-drops 
crown'd, 
I mark'd the Rose her blusing charms unfold ; — 
Ere yonder hills were tingM with evening gold, 

Nipt by the blast she witherM on the ground. 

Daughter of Beauty ! transient is thy date, 
But ah ! as transient is the date of Man ; 
The hour, that fix'd thy bloom's uncertain span^ 

Consigned my Junius to the grasp of Fate. 

Sons of mortality ! — the tidings hear ! 

Blithe as the lark he hail'd the rising day. 
Yet, ere the dew-star veils her lucent ray, 

He lies all breathless on the blood-stain'd bier. 

Alas ! I tremble at the dread decree : 

To-morrow's dawn may sound a knell for mc\ 

J. D. W. 

I feel particularly obliged for the information you 
have given me respecting the new translation of 
Petrarch's sonnets, and the animadversions of the 
Critical Reviewers on his poetic character. But 



109 

I cannot find words sufEciendy strong, to ex- 
press my disgust at the shameless manner in which 
these harpies of literature have insulted the me- 
mory of the sweetest of poets* Every Homer 
will have his Zoilus. But Petrarch's productions 
will continue to command the admiration of the 
world, when the Critical Reviewers are buried in 
everlasting oblivion ; and his sweet enchanting 
strains will find an echo in every feeling hearty 
when the herd of pedantic critics are swept into 
the shades of night. I had rather be the author of 
Petrarch's thirty-eighth sonnet, • on the death ojf 
Laura, than of all the dissertations that ever appear- 
ed in the Critical Review. 

I will not trouble you for any further account 
of the observations of these pseudo-critics ; yet if 
you could conveniently favour me with a copy of 
any extracts from the translation of Petrarch, 
which my be inserted in the Review, you would 
in a particular manner oblige me. 

I have a copy of thirty of the sonnets, and three 
of the odes of Petrarch, both in the original and 
v/ith an anonymous English translation. If you 
are inclined to judge of Petrarch for yourself, I 
will with pleasure send you this volume. In some 
of the sonnets on *^ Laura living," there are cer- 
tainly many quaint conceits, but these are univer- 
sally to be found in the Italian writers. His 



110 

occasional obscurities are entirely to be attributed 
to the imperfect state of the Italian language at the 
period in which he flourished. But his sonnets 
on " Laura dead'^ are the most exquisitely beau- 
tiful which any language has produced. There 
is in them a vein of luxuriant imagery, and a 
glow of pathetic sentiment, which must charm 
every reader of sensibility, and which have de- 
servedly immortalized their author's name. I 
have enclosed two of them in an English dress ;^ 
When you have read them, I believe you will not 
agree with the Critical Reviewers in their opinion 
of Petrarch's merits. 

* ^ ^ 

Believe me ever most truly yours^ 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Berkeley y Deceinber 15, 1808. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

THE two last letters, with which I trou- 
bled you, were occupied in a painful vindication 

* They will be found at the end of the Sonnets in 
this volume. 



Ill 

of py character and conduct, with reference to a 
well-known subject. As this once distressing affair 
at present sleeps in peace, I will not call it into life 
again, by unnecessarily provoking a discussion of 
it. But I cannot satisfy my feelings, without re- 
peating to ypu the assurance of the gratitude I feel, 
for the true friendship and kind liberality, which 
you manifested towards me during the whole of the 
business. 

"^ ^ Tjr 

Farewell then, for the present, to a subject which 
has been the source of the sweetest pleasures and 
bitterest distresses of my life. I have now another 
concern to occupy my attention, upon which I 
beg leave, my most valued friend, to solicit a re- 
newal of the kindness, which, on many former 
occasions, you have shown me, in favouring me 
with your opinion and advice. I allude to the 
steps, which it will be necessary for me to take, 
respecting my entrance into the University. In a 
few months, the period of three years w^hich I 
engaged to remain with Dr. Jenner, will have ex- 
pired. My wishes towards a clerical life are ever 
the same ; and as, in order to the accomplishment 
of these wishes, it is requisite that I should pass 
through the fiery ordeal of an University education, 



112 

I must prepare mjself for the necessary evil. 1 
propose to enter the first term after the long vaca- 
tion, and, by taking at once the two terms in 
which my attendance at college is not requisite, I 
shall be able to remain with Dn Jenner a few 
months longer, if he wishes it. I need not say that 
the acquisition of a scholarship or exhibition 
would be most desirable to me. May I then in- 
quire of you what steps I should take with a view 
to the attaining it ? I will simply mention what 
has occurred to my own mind. About three years 

ago, Mr. corresponded, respecting me, 

with a friend of college, — who was so kind 

as to promise his exertions in my favour, saying 
at the same time that he could easily procure me 

two exhibitions w^orth ten pounds each, at , 

and that, in consequence of Mr. 's recom- 
mendation, he would receive nothing of me for 
tuition, which would be an additional advantage 

of ;^9, annually. As Mr. , in consequence 

of certain occurrences two years ago, expressed 
his determination to give himself no further con- 
cern respecting me, I cannot with propriety apply 
to him on the subject. But I have had tt in 

contemplation to address a letter to Mr. , 

which I think might perhaps be productive of 
much good, without the possibility of doing harm. 



113 

Yet, as I am unwilling to stir in so delicate a 
matter, without the advice of an experienced 
friend, I have taken the liberty of submitting my 
ideas to your superior judgment. It appears tome - 
that what I do should be done with as little delay 
as possible. 

At whatever college I may be induced to enter, 
my life will be a life of privacy. I have been so 
long inured to persecution and censure, and ri- 
dicule, that I am grown completely callous to 
them, from whatever quarter they may proceed. 
A few congenial friends will constitute all my con- 
nexions ; and, from a consciousness of the value 
of genuine friendship, I particularly wish, in all 
my movements, to bear an eye to the movements 
of your son. Whenever he enters, whether it be 
sooner or later than the time I have proposed 
for myself, I should gladly alter my plans, for the 
sake of being accompanied by him. 

I thank you, my dear Sir, for your friendly 
caution, transmitted to me by my mother, that I 
should study prose more than poetry. I meddle 
but little with the muses at present, and seldom 
solicit any favours of them, except it be 

Some stealing' melodies that heart might love^ 
Or a brief sonnet to beguile my tears. BowLES» 

L 



114 

1 now principally devote my time to the study 
of Grecian literature. 



^ 



I ever am your ni,ost obliged faithful servant, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



^ ^ ^ 

HE may look back upon the days that 
are past, and the recollection may be sweet ; but 
the opportunity of improving those days is gone 
for ever ; to retrace them therefore with fond re- 
gret, when they are no longer ours, is unworthy 
of the immortal mind. It is also sweet to direct 
the eye of hope towards futurity, and to feast the 
imagination on scenes that are yet to come. These 
dreams are consoling to the weary mind, and are 
no derogation from the dignity of wisdom. But 
though we beguile our solitude with these visions 
of fancy, let us not dwell upon them as if they 
were realities ; let us not worship the phantoms of 
our own creation ; for before the least of our hopes 
are realized, the heart which they animated may 
cease to throb, the eye which they caused to beam 



115 

with rapture may be closed in the darkness of the 
grave, 

^ ^ ^ 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Berkeley^ January 9, 1809. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

YOUR kind attention to my inquiries on 
University matters, and the information and ad- 
vice with which you have favoured me respecting 
them, demand my most grateful acknowledg- 
ments. 

Your son has most probably acquainted you 
with the intention, which I expressed in my letter 

to him, of entering at , and the motives 

by which I was actuated in preferring that society. 
It would therefore be superfluous for me ta 
trouble you with any remarks on that subject. 

A gentleman in town, to whom I applied for 
information respecting the exhibitions which are 
in the gift of the London Companies, has pro- 
mised to furnish, me with all necessary intelligence 



116 

concerning them. But a question has been started 
by him, which I am unable to answer, and to 
which I should feel highly obliged to you if you 
would have the kindness to afford me a reply. 
Can a student in the University of Oxford enjoy 
the benefits of any exhibition, which docs not be- 
long to the college in which he resides ? If this 
question be answered in the negative, can you have 
the goodness to inform me, where any such exhi- 
bitions are attainable? It is painful that those, 
who enter the University with the disinterested 
wish of finally promoting the glory of their God, 
by their ministerial labours, should be obliged to 
take so many worldly considerations into the ac- 
count j but I need not inform you, my dear Sir, 
that these considerations, in my case, are matters 
of importance and necessity. 

The sonnet to w^hich you allude, is entirely^ at 
the service of the Magazine to which you have 
transmitted it. I have a series of devotional 
sonnets, with the composition of which I beguiled 
my solitary hours, under the pressure of heart- 
rending sorrows. These, when I have time, I 
shall fairly transcribe, and take the liberty of send- 
ing them to you, lor the benefit of your opinion 
and correction ; and if you think they will coincide 
with the plan of that publication, I shall rejoice 



riT 

to see them inserted, happy if I may be deemed 
worthy to cast my mite into the treasury, and, 
however feebly, to co-operate with the editors, in 
promoting the best of causes. 

Acquainted as I am, my dear Sir, with the num- 
berless engagements that engross your time, it is 
with much reluctance that I trouble you with the 
inquiries which this letter contains ; but I rely on 
your long-continued friendship to excuse the unwil» 
ling intrusion. 

I beg to be most kindly remembered to all your 
family, and remain 

Your obliged faithful servant, 

J. D. W0RGAN5 



TO MR. D. G. WAITo 

Berkeley^ January 9, l809o 

Mr DEAR SIR, 

YOUR obliging letter, containing the re- 
mainder of Petrarch's sonnets from the Critical Re- 
view, I hav« just received, and feel most highly 
indebted to you, for the trouble you have kindly 
taken in gratifying my curiosity. The result of aiii 

L 2 



118 

attentive perusal and consideration of the whole on 
my mind is a conviction that the literary world was 
never disgraced by critics more unjust, or a trans- 
lator more incompetent, than those in question. 
You can form no idea how miserably the sonnets 
of Petrarch are mangled and butchered, in the 
specimens of the translation which you sent me. 
I shall now send you in return a sonnet or two, 
which I translated about a year and a half ago ; 
and I beg you to favour me with your unreserved 
opinion, and your critical animadversions upon 
them. The first is the same of which your letter 
contains a translation ; you may therefore make a 
comparison between their merits. 



SONNET LIX, 



The cheerful hours returning Zephyr leads, 

With llow'rs and fruits, fair partners of his way ; 

The swallow's chirp, the nightingale's lorn lay, 
Are heard, and beauty crowns the spangled meads. 
The fields rejoice ; Heav'n smiles serenely bright ; 

His daughter's charms exulting Jove admires ; 

Air, Ocean, Earth, confess the genial fires ; 
And all their tribes ix^ glowing love unite. 



119 

But ah ! to me revolving seasons bring 

Fresh griefs for her, who in my bosom reigns^ 
Though borne to yonder skies, for ever dear : 
Of her bereft, the flower-enamerd spring, 
The plumy songster, and the virgin trains, 
Bleak, ban^en wilds and savage forms appear. 

The two sonnets, which I have enclosed, I will 
be obliged to you to return, when you have done 
with them, as I have no other copy. I send them 
as specimens of my translation, with which I in- 
tend to proceed in my summer evening rambles^ 
The more severely you criticise them, the more I 
shall feel obliged to you. 

I thank you for your hints respecting the Spa- 
nish language. The object v/hich I have in view 
in all my studies, is to render my life honourable 
to myself, and useful to others : I would there- 
fore willingly learn any language, in which there 
w^ere any valuable writers, not yet translated into 
our language ^ and I should think my time well 
occupied in making a version of them. If there- 
fore you will be kind enough to inform me what 
are the untranslated Spanish poems to which you 
allude, I w^ill ask the advice of Mr. Hayley, and 
if he considers those poems as worthy of a trans- 
lation, and likely to repay my labour, I will im- 
mediately commence the study of the Spanish 
language. 



120 

Should you meet with any translation of the 
Sonnets of Petrarch, I need not say how much I 
should be gratified by a little information respect- 
ing them. I shall confine my version to those 
after the death of Laura, as they are infinitely 
superior to the rest. 

Adieu, my dear Sir. 

Ever most faithfully yours, 

J. D. W. 



TO MR, H. BIDDULPHo 

Berkeley^ January 9, 1809. 

ilY DEAR FRIEND, 

MY last letter was so much occupied 
with Oxonian business, that I had no opportunity 
to enter, as I could have wished, into literary mat- 
ters. I therefore resume my pen, for the purpose 
of mentioning to you the nature of my studies, of 
asking your opinion respecting them, and of inquir- 
ing the nature of your own studies. P'or, as we 
are to be fellow-collegians, I should hope that our 
pursuits may be congenial, and that we may be 
united in our various occupations. 



121 

I have been content, for a considerable time, to 
sacrifice inclination at the shrine of duty ; or, in 
other words, to forsake poetry for Grecian prose. 
I made out a list of Latin and Greek composi- 
tions, which I determined immediately and unin- 
terruptedly to study. This list I have enclosed. 
Those pie.ces, which I have marked with an as- 
terisk, I have already perused. I should be 
obliged to you, if you would have the kindness to 
add to the list any writers whose works you con- 
sider as deserving of my notice ; or to erase from 
it any works, which you think will not repay my 
labours. I am at present reading Plato's Phaedo, 
which enraptures me by the sublimity of its doc- 
trines, and the sw^eetness of the diction. By ar- 
guments deduced from natural religion^ he so 
eloquently shows the worthlessness of our tene- 
ments of clay, the vanity of the pursuits that oc- 
cupy the children of mortality, and the value and 
eternity of the soul, that I do not wonder at the 
story we are told of a youth, who drowned hinv- 
self, after the perusal of the Phsedo, that he might 
put Its truth to the test, and be freed from the in- 
cumbrances of flesh and blood. I cannot here 
refrain from remarking the vast difference I have 
found between the style of Socrates' Discourses, 
as transmitted to us by Plato, and those for which 



122 

we are indebted to Xenophon, I have always 
found the Memorabilia a dull book, and I could 
never bring myself to a relish of its contents, how- 
ever excellent I knew their nature to be. In 
Plato's Dialogues, on the contrary, every thing is 
easy and animated, and there are none of the 
wearisome metaphysical subtleties, which abound 
in the Memorabilia. I make these observations, 
because I know it is common to study the Memo- 
rabilia, as affording an excellent survey of the So- 
cratic philosophy ; and I would recommend Plato's 
Dialogues to you, as containing an equally lu- 
minous account of Socrates' doctrines, expressed 
in a much more entertaining and agreeable 
manner- 

What books do you take up at college ? I have 
thought of Mounteney's Demosthenes and Plato's 
Dialogues. If, however, the examining masters 
do not think proper to accept what they call muti- 
lated works, I would substitute Aristotle's Ethics, 
or Poetics, and Longinus. 

Do you study any theological works ? I long 
ago made a determination to read no writings on 
religious subjects, that proceeded from a mortal 
pen, but to use the sacred volume as its own in- 
terpreter. If, however, you can inform me of 
any works on divinity, which are possessed of sin- 



123 

gular merit, I shall willingly deviate from miy reso- 
lution. 

With logic and the mathematics I have not yet 
meddled. It will be time enough to begin them 
when I reach the banks of the Isis. I should be 
obliged to you, nevertheless, to inform me what 
are the standard works on these sciences in use at 
Oxford, that I might purchase them, should they 
fall in my way. 

Could you, from any friend who has lately been 
at Oxford, procure an account of the particulars 
of University expenses, such an account would not 
only be gratifying to my curiosity, but it is of 
importance that I should receive the information 
previously to my entrance at college. 

And now, my dear frknd, I have written you a 
long letter, on subjects which we are accustomed 
to regard as of high importance. Yet when I 
read what I have written, and consider it with 
futurity in my view, I almost blush at the asso- 
ciation of ideas, that leads us to attach so much 
moment to pursuits, which a disembodied spirit 
must esteem to be vanity, and the utility of which 
will be vanished when a few fleeting years have 
rolled over our heads. Oh ! for the unction of 
the immortal Spirit, to raise our thoughts from 
these secondary acquirements, to a thirst after 
that eternal wisdom, the value of which will con- 



124 

tinue undiminished, when this poor perishable 
globe is sunk in flames 1 
Farewell, my dear Henry. 

Yours, with the most sincere 

And affectionate friendship, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 



Berkeley^ February 16, 1809* 

MY DEAR SIR, 

AS you have kindly favoured me with 
permission to trouble you for occasional informa- 
tion on subjects connected with my literary pur- 
suits, I feel assured that you will not think me 
obtrusive, if I once more solicit the assistance you 
may be enabled to afford me from the facilities 
for intelligence you enjoy. 

I have lately been reading the Dialogues of 
Plato, and am rapt in admiration at the grandeur 
of his thoughts, and the sublimity of his doctrines. 
Can you inform me what of his works have been 
translated into English, and what are the reputed 
merits of the different versions? Also, whether 



125 

his jdoctrlnes have been discussed by any luminous 
commentator, either in our own or any other lan- 
guage ? In one of the notes on Plato, in the 
Analecta Majora, I find a reference to Stanley's 
History of Philosophy ; do you know any thing 
of this work ? and can you conveniently ascertain 
what parts of Plato have been rendered into Eng- 
lish by Harris, the author of Hermes ; and what 
by Taylor, the celebrated character, for whose 
benefit the Literary Fund was first established ? 
Perhaps, from the works to which you have access 
in the Bristol Library, it may be in your power 
to furnish me with information on these points. 
It is with much reluctance I make myself so trou- 
blesome to you, but in this outlandish corner of 
the globe we have no learning, either ancient or 
modern, foreign or native ; and your kind atten- 
tion to my former inquiries induces me to flatter 
myself that you will gratify my curiosity by an 
answer to these, as soon as may suit your conve- 
niency. 

I have postponed the furthering my progress in 
Italian, and my intended acquisition of Spanish, 
till I have met with some congenial soul to ac- 
company me in my studies. It is the most heart- 
less of all employments to engage in learning a 
fresh language, without a fellow-student to trot 
by your side. I shall therefore abandon my pro- 

M 



126 

jected pursuit of modern continental literature, till 
I have quitted the solitary cells of Berkeley ; and in 
the mean time I shall follow the advice of the poet, 
in studying without interruption the " Exemplaria 
Grosca.^^ For it is pleasant to cultivate in solitude 
a language with the principles of which you are al- 
ready acquainted, however fatiguing it may be to 
attempt the cultivation of one with which you are 
totally unacquainted. 

Believe me to be, as ever, 
Dear Sir, 
Your sincerely obliged friend and servant, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO THE SAME. 

Berkeley^ March 8, 1809. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I THANK you for your obliging letter of 
the 25th of February, which I have just received, 
and for the satisfactory information it contained 
on Platonic subjects. The account with which 
you have kindly furnished me, has afforded me all 
the intelligence I desired. There is only one fur- 



127 

ther inquiry with which I will trouble you : — Has 
either Sydenham or Taylor translated the Ph^do, 
and has either of them discussed the tenets of 
Socrates, as to the immateriality of the soul ? — 
Have they also offered any remarks on the opi- 
nions which are frequently expressed in the 
Phsedo, as to the nature and duration of the prin- 
ciple of life, which animates the brute creation ? 
These are subjects which have been little noticed^ 
yet I cannot but consider them as of no trifling- 
interest ; and I have accordingly bestowed on them 
a considerable portion of my thoughts, since they 
first suggested themselves to my mind. I may be 
asked, what benefit such inquries can produce ; 
and whether they are capable of contributing to 
the present or future happiness of man ? That 
they are directly productive of such advantages, 
I cannot presume to assert ; but how great are the 
advantages which any discussions must afford in- 
directly, whose tendency is to enlarge our ideas 
of the wisdom and goodness of Omnipotence, by 
endeavouring to explain and simplify the organi- 
zation of animated nature ! And allowing that we 
fail of success in the research, is not a curiosity 
of this description more ennobling, and more wor- 
thy of our powers, than the enthusiastic zeal o£ 
the antiquary, which leads him to pore over worm- 
eaten records in quest of barren knowledge, that 



128 

he may reconcile apparent anachronisms in an- 
cient fabulists, or adjust the contradictory tenets 
of different mythologists ? All our pursuits of a 
speculative nature may be trifles, and trifles they 
confessedly are, compared with the sacred Wisdom 
that teaches us how to live and how to die ; but 
the pursuits of natural philosophy are surely of all 
others the least trifling ; and if contrasted with the 
frivolities that engross the attention of a majority 
of mankind, how dignified, how sublime do they 
appear ! 

It is not because I conceive my arguments to 
be necessary to form your own opinion on these 
topics, that I enter into such a series of observa- 
tions. My object is simply to elucidate the mo- 
tives, that lead me to trouble you with so many 
inquiries concerning Plato and his divine produc- 
tions. His Phsedo, as well as his Crito, I have 
read, and re-read, and my sentiments most fully 
concur with yours, both as to their subject and 
their style. They are worthy of a disciple of 
Socrates : w^ould that their author had lived four 
hundred years later ! how glorious a propagator 
might he have been of the doctrines of Christ! 
But this is a foolish remark, and I am ashamed of 
having written it. The time of our birth, as well 
as the period of our existence, is surely best de- 
termined by Him that made us. 



129 

I am rojoiced to hear the desire you express of 
seeking for wisdom in the academic shades. I 
purpose entering them in September next: and 
How pleasant would it be for us to study Plato 
together! You aspire to a happy profession, 
which may lead to the highest honours, and render 
you an instrument of the greatest good ; and were I 
to offer my advice, I would point out that profession 
to you from a desire, that, as it has long been de- 
graded by men of ignorance and corruption, its dig- 
nity may at length be restored, by men of talent and 
integrity. In the choice of a pursuit, however, that 
is to be coeval with oxir active powers, the bent 
of the inclination is the only guide that we can 
safely consult. ^^ Naturam seqiiere^^^ is the suni 
total of all the advice that can be giveuo. 

The seal v/ith which my last letter was closedy 
was dug up in a church-yard in this neighbour- 
hood. It is composed of unpolished brass, and 
its handle is a thick ring of the same metal. I 
rather conceive that the inscription is Hebrew^ 
since one or two of the letters are common He- 
brew characters. The others may perhaps be 
distorted, ar unskilfully engraved. I have sought 
in vain for an interpretation. But are you likely^ 
to fall in with Mr. Adam Clarke ? He would na 
doubt be able to solve the mystery. 

I am sorry to hear that you have been so mucb 

M 2 



130 

Indisposed, but I hope you are by this time re- 
covered. For my own part, my life is one con- 
tinued series of indispositions. But I must not 
murmur. 

Adieu, my dear Sir. 

Believe me to be, as ever, 
Most sincerely yours, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO MR. GARDNER, FRAMPTON UPON 
SEVERN. 

Berkeley^ February 15, 1809. 

DEAR SIR, 

I SHOULD sooner have acknowledged 
the arrival of your favour of January the 18th, 
but a series of pressing engagements has occupied 
every moment of my time, and engrossed every 
idea of my mind. 

I thank you for the kind communication of your 
excellent Essay on the Effects of Commerce. I 
regret, for the sake of your fame, that it was not 
published at the time it was first written, since its 
concealment has afforded Mr. an opportu- 
nity of kidnapping the laurels which should have 



131 

graced your brow, and of placing them on his 
own. But I rejoice to hear that you are engaged 
in decorating the same ideas with poetic language. 
The subject opens an ample field for splendid 
descriptions, animated contrasts, and pathetic apo- 
strophes. It has, indeed, been already noticed in 
the "■ Deserted Village,'' and in Bowles's Poem 
on St. Michael's Mount ; yet it is far from being 
exhausted ; and an expanded poetical dissertation 
upon it would be novel, and highly interesting, 
particularly at the present period, when the merits 
of our commercial system are the topics of uni- 
versal discussion. 

Yet highly as I admire the execution of your 
Essay, and much as I wish to see it arrayed in a 
metrical garb, I must candidly confess that I am 
by no means prepared to subscribe to many of the 
doctrines you inculcate, nor to allow the majority 
of the arguments you employ. A solitary indivi- 
dual, like myself, who wishes to live and die in 
the shades of retirement, can have little induce- 
ment to meddle with the intrkate discussions of 
political economy, especially with those points, 
which have been matters of dispute among the 
wisest of legislators. Yet the result of the brief 
consideration I have bestowed on the consequences 
of commerce, is a conviction that its progress is 
attended with benefits, that are more than sufHr 



132 

cient to counterhalance its acknowledged evils. 
It is only injurious to the weak and foolish, who 
would find abundant resources for injuring them- 
selves by corrupt gratifications without it: to 
those who have wisdon) enough to improve its 
effects in a proper manner, it yields the bkssings 
of civilization and science. But these are in a 
great measure matters of opinion ; and the advo- 
cates of liberal disputation must lament that your 
reasonings have not been made public, however 
they may question the justice of your tenets. 

Have you had time to read the " Recollec- 
tions OF A Summer's Day ?'^ And could you 
favour me with them, and with your remarks, in 
the course of a week ? I am anxious to revise 
and complete the composition, and I happen to 
have no other copy. 

I rely on the speedy fulfilment of your kind 
promise of transmitting to me a packet of your 
poetical pieces, and remain, 

My dear Sir, 
Your obliged faithful servant, 

J. D. WORGAN. 



133 



TO MR. GARDNER. 

Berkeley^ March 8, 1809, 

J3EAR SIR, 

I RETURN your able Dissertation on the 
Effects of Commerce, with my sincere thanks for 
your kindness in allowing me the perusal of it. 
However essentially my sentiments may differ 
from yours, as to the nature of the consequences 
attendant on commerce, when considered in the 
aggregate, your Essay commands my admiratiop, 
from the energy with which your arguments are 
delivered, and from the glowing colours in which 
you have delineated the various scenes of change 
and misery which you exhibit to the view. Your 
Essay is a beautiful painting ; whether it gives a 
correct likeness, it is not my province to deter- 
mine. I hope it does not. 

My destiny leads me to London in the course 
of next week, when I shall be anxious to submit 
the "Recollections of a Summer's Day" to 
the inspection of two literary friends, one of whom 
is a female critic. Strange, you will say, for a 
woman to w^ear the cap of Aristarchus ! I have 
found, however, that when women are possessed 



134 

of talent, they often employ it with more sagacity 
and acuteness than the proud sons of literature are 
in general capable of doing. But though you see 
me so bent on rambling into every subject that 
starts into by brain, I have no time at present to 
rhapsodize, not even in praise of woman ! I must 
therefore return to the subject with which 1 began, 
and request the favour of you to transmit the said 
Recollections to Mr. W. Davies, who will go 
from Eastington to Berkeley on Friday next. I 
shall expect your remarks with anxiety, since by 
them the fate of my poem will in a great measure 
be determined. 

In troubling you so often for my pieces, when 
perhaps you may not have finished the perusal of 
them, I am afraid I may appear importunate. 
But this is a species of importunacy to which all 
must be subject, who, like myself, abhor the 
drudgery of transcription, and consequently possess 
but one copy of their compositions. 

With great regard, I ever am. 
Dear Sir, 
Your obliged faithful servant, 

John D. Worgan:. 



135 



TO 

• 1809. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

IT is not from listlessness or inattention 
that your kind letter of the first of March has 
so long remained unacknowledged. During the 
greater part of the time which has elapsed since 
its arrival, the bed has been my dwelling, and the 
contagion of the typhus has been preying on my 
frame. My advances in the state of convalescence 
have been but slow, yet I am now sufficiently re- 
covered to allow me to take the air, and to mingle 
in the gay scenes of spring. 

Thanks be to Providence for its protecting 
care ! It orders all things for the best. Had the 
choice of my fate been allowed me, I surely 
should have recoiled from the idea of enduring 
a pestilential fever. But now that I have en- 
dured it, and that its terrors are past, I review 
my sufferings, not only without regret, but with 
lively satisfaction and gratitude. They gave me 
an enviable season for tranquil thought. They 
lifted my soul above the world, half delivering it 
from the body, and they led me to a train of re- 



136 

flections on the nature of our existence, which 
were so soothing and so animating to my feelings, 
that I would not exchange the ennobling consola- 
tions they afford, for all the pageants of pleasure 
and glory. 

Alas ! how unequal is the alliance, to which our 
r^pirits are ordained to submit, during the period 
of our pilgrimage below ! What avails it that they 
were the semblance of the Deity, created in im- 
mortality and incorruption ? What avails it that 
they were constituted partakers of the divine na- 
ture, and were designed to be partakers of the di- 
vine glory? They are immured within a melan- 
choly prison, within a tenement of clay, which it 
is their office to animate and inform. The various 
senses, which appertain to the body, they ought 
to guide and control. They are to be the movers 
and conductors of the corporeal machine ; and the 
object at which their exertions are to be directed, is 
the glory of their Creator, and the happiness of 
their companions in life, by which, at the same 
time, their own advancement in glory and happiness 
would be promoted. Such are the purposes for 
which they were created ; but what is the world 
in which they are to move ! It is a wilderness, which 
iniquity,likeatorrent,has overdeluged, and through 
which the demons of folly and wickedness diffuse 
their influence, like a poisonous contagion. And 



137 

does the heaven-born soul, on taking a part hi 
such a scene, display her sacred origin, by resist- 
ing their seductive powers, and assert her native 
dignity, by trampling under foot the most blan- 
dishing of their allurements ? Let us ask ourselves 
the question, and how mortifying is the reply ? 
And can the heaven-descended soul become the 
slave of earthly pollution? She can, she is be- 
come such. Does she not employ the powers of 
the bciiy, in procuring a few transient and un- 
worthy gratifications ? Does she not neglect and 
frustrate the object of her creation, — does she not 
insult her Maker and vilify herself, by yielding to 
the impulse of lawless passions, by suffering her- 
self to be controlled by earthly objects, instead of 
controlling them, and, by fixing her regard upon 
the trifles of time, forgetful of the eternal state ? 
And does she not thus disqualify herself for the 
heavenly inheritance, and assimulate herself to all 
that is evil and wretched ? Reason and experience, 
as well as Revelation, reply in the affirmative to 
these painful inquiries. And how shall the hor- 
rors of this fatal condition be removed ? Reason 
and experience are here unable to reply. To 
Revelation alone, we can look with confidence ; 
and how cheering is the answer it affords ! Does 
the spirit bewail the evils into which she has 
plunged? Does she revolve to forsake them^ 

N 



138 

and to live as she ouglit ? An infinite atonement 
has been made by the Deity himself, who was 
pleased to lay down his glories, and reside in a 
corporeal habitation like her own, thus to endure, 
in the fulness of his eternal compassion, the re- 
wards that would have devolved upon the head of 
offending man. Through a reliance on the mercy 
of this sacred Redeemer, she may be reconciled 
to Heaven, and by his divine assistance she may be 
released from the corrupt propensities wMfeh ad- 
here to her nature, and may regain her long-lost 
purity. Thus is a renovating change produced. 
The soul is re-animated, and her faculties are once 
more dedicated to the purposes for which they 
were bestowed. The tumults of impurity are 
succeeded by the sweet calm of holiness. She 
learns to regard surrounding objects in their pro- 
per light. She sees that the world was merely in- 
tended for a momentary use and existence. Fare- 
well then to the insane dependance she formerly 
reposed upon it ! She sees that her body, which 
had formerly been the centre of all her hopes and 
fears, is no part of herself, but merely a mansion 
in which she is to move for an appointed time, of 
the different parts of which, indeed, she is to 
dispose, while she inhabits it, to the noblest ends, 
but which she shall shortly relinquish. Farewell 
then to her former restlessness and anxietv for its 



139 

welfare ! It is unworthy of an Immortal being to 
indulge in painful solicitude for the fate of a 
perishable frame. She looks on earth, as a sphere 
through which she is to pass, — ^on life, as the pe- 
riod allowed for her journey, and on death, as the 
summons which shall call her to the abode of 
Him, whom to please Is the subject of her impas- 
sioned hope, whom to offend is the subject of 
her anxious fear. As to the body, it is a galling 
impediment to her in the exercise of her energies ; 
but she labours to live distinctly from it, and par- 
ticipates but little in its concerns. Let it be 
stretched on the couch of sickness ; she flourishes 
in undiminished vigour. Let it be racked with 
pain; she smiles in the fulness of divine tran- 
quility. Let it be loaded with fetters, and cast 
into the dark recesses of a dungeon j she spurns 
the manacle, and rises with her native strength 
into the regions of imagination. — Earth and hea- 
ven are open to her gaze ; she glides beyond the 
stars, and penetrates into the unseen abysses of the 
universe. Still in this life she is frail i alas, how 
frail ! She fails in attaining the excellence of 
purity which she desires, and her firmness is too 
often overcome by the tempting follies she detests. 
But she is supported by that Eternal Power, whose 
succour shall never be supplicated in vain ; and 
the continual adversities, which chequer the pro- 



140 

gress of life, confirm her in her contempt of earth, 
and her aspirations after a better country. And 
her frailties shall soon be over. She advances in 
wisdom, in perfection, and in happiness , she is 
more and more assimilated to the imjage of her 
God ; and \vhen she shall have completed the 
purposes for which she was sent into the body, she 
shall be emancipated from its bondage : she shall 
jxiount upon the wings of the wind, and ascend 
triumphantly into the presence of the Father, to 
repose for ever in his bosom, looking with pity 
and with scorn on her former incumbrances of 
flesh and blood, and viewing the earth from afar 
as a rolling atom. 

But I must restrain my careering fancy. If I 
have grown more formal than the laws of corres- 
pondence allow, and if what I have written is 
more like a sermon than a letter, you must re- 
member that I am just rescued from the verge of 
the grave, and you will not wonder that these ex- 
alted subjects are uppermost in the mind, and 
that I wish them to be uppermost in the minds of 
those I love. How contemptible do the frivolous 
pursuits of life appear, when compared with those 
which divine contemplation holds forward to the 
view ! 

Adieu, my dear friend : we cannot fully under- 
stand these glorious subjects, while we are in this 



corner of the universe ; but we know enough of 
them at present to sublime our thoughts, and re- 
generate our desires, and they shall be amply de- 
veloped to our understanding, in a happier land,* 
when our spirits are in a disembodied state. — 
Adieu ! adieu I 

Ever most truly and affectionately yours, 

John Dawes Worgan* 



N 2. 



142 



TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

JOHN DAWES WORGAN, 



While Jenner's fostVmgland wasstretchM to save 
Thy genius, Worgan, from th' untimely grave ; 
While ev'ry muse thy wit and fancy shar'd. 
And for thy brows an early wreath prepared ; 
Heav'n claim'd thy heart; — and, to assert the claim, 
Snatch'd thee from dangVous paths of earthly fame ; 
And gave thee, blest exchange for such renown ! 
Immortal bliss, and a celestial crown. 

J. B. Drayton. 
"ifanuarijZ^ 1810. 



POEMS 



RHAPSODY. 



PARTLY IN IMITATION OF TIBULLUS^. 

SAY, for what peerless boon, what glitt'ring prize. 
Should ardent vows with grateful incense rise ? 
Not that a dome with lofty splendour crowned 
May spread my worthless glory wide around : 
Not that my land a thousand ploughs may till. 
And menial tribes await my sovereign will; 
While w^avy crops the laughing meads adorn, 
By Plenty scattered from her golvlen horn : 
Not that my chests may groan with brilliant ore^ 
And Fortune's gifts enhance my frugal store, 
And Glory decorate my iowly name 
With envied garlands of immortal fame : 



144 

But that my soul, by sacred Wisdom led, 
May rest secure beneath some low-built shed, 
And in thy love, Almighty Father ! blest, 
Hail the sweet transports of eternal rest. 
When vigVous youth my rising passion warms, 
And earthly scenes display their fading charms, 
In this frail heart unchanging Monarch reign, 
And o'er my will thy rightful sway sustain ; 
My erring fancy and its pow'rs control. 
And bind with cords of love my wand'ring soul* 
In manhood's prime, and each succeeding stage, 
Thou shalt alone my first, best thoughts engage r 
Tost on the busy world's tempestuous sea. 
My steadfast anchor shall be fix d on Thee ; 
And when decaying age shall damp my joy. 
And the weak frame of human bliss destroy, 
Let my glad breast with humble faith resign, 
Trust in thy love, and on thy arm recline. 
Then let my soul (thy glories in her view) 
From earth's drear wilderness her flight pursue. 
Rest at thy feet, amid the prostrate host. 
Who sound thy praises through th' empyreal coast ; 
And there the counsels of thy mercy trace, 
Sav'd by the riches of thy pardoning grace. 
Vain are the ponderous loads of sordid gold, 
Which the fond throng with eager joy beholds 
Tho' pknteous harvests crown the yellow plain,. 
And splendid affluence spread her golden reign ; 



145 

Though many a dome, on Parian columns raisMy 
Shine o'er the vale, with pageant art emblaz'd ; 
Though grateful vistas meet the wondVing eyes, 
And lovelv scenes in bright succession rise — 
Vain are the joys their various charms impart. 
Unless thy presence cheer my pensive heart. 

Though flowing vests adorn the glitt^ing side, 
" Twice dipt in poison of Sidonian pride," 
Vain are the honours of the Iberian coast, 
Vain are the beauties Tyrian purples boast : 
May that transcendent robe my soul array, 
Dy'd in the blood that wash'd my sins away ! 
Clad in this glorious dress, from terror free, 
My longing eyes th' approaching Judge shall see. 

Ye vain pursuits and transitory joys, 
Which erring crowds with senseless ardour prize ; 
Ye mystic rolls of philosophic lore, 
Which learning's train with studious toil explore, 
Ye blind delights, that charm th' infatuate great j 
The lures of pleasure, and the pomp of state ; 
Say, can ye grant your vot'ries firm repose. 
And shield from treach'rous friends and angry foes ? 
Can all your boasted energies relieve 
Afl[lictive care, and healing comfort give ? 
To Fortune's fickle pow'r superior raise, 
And guide their wandering feet thro' flow'ry ways ? 
And when grim Death shall point his fatal dart, 
And pluck from earthly joys th' unwilling heart. 



146 

Say, can ye shed around a sacred ray, 
And heav'nly comfort to the breast convey ? 
Vain is each phantom on this earthly ball, 
And in eternal night its brightest glories fall. 
O let me rest in humble life secure. 
Spurn the false world, and heav'nly bliss ensure ! 
Far from terrestrial joys and ravening strife, 
Which fall, loud thundVing, and embitter life, 
Let me with peaceful competence reside, 
And view secure the wreck of tow'ring pride ; 
Let sweet Content her lasting joys afford. 
And humble Plenty crown my frugal board : 
Then shall mine eyes with pitying scorn survey 
The fond delusive meteors of a day. 
Which from the mists of erring Fancy rise, 
And, vainly foUowM, mock the gazing eyes. 
Then shall my thought with sacred fervour soar 
On seraph wing, and gain th' ethereal shore ; 
With Salem's beauty firM, the world despise, 
And quit the rolling earth, to grasp the skies. 

Redeeming Lord ! thy quick'ning powV exert. 
And to thy law my rebel will convert. 
Claim for thyself alone my worthless heart ; 
Correct, refine, and purge its every part. 
Break with strong hand th' oppressor's galling chain, 
And in my breast confirm thy blissful reign. 



.147 



RETIREMENT, 

AN ODE. 

WRITTEN IN JULY IB06. 
L 1. 

YE verdant glades and echoing groves ; 

Ye streams, that lave th' enamel'd plain, 
Where oft th' enamourM Fancy roves, 

And Virtue guides her chosen train ! 
While Pleasure flatters on the wing, 
Your charms my rustic pipe shall sing; 

And while th' adventVous numbers flow, 
Your tuneful strain, ye feather'd quires, unite ; 

In softer gales, ye Zephyrs, blow ; 
Ye blooming flowVs, the ravish'd sense delight 

I. 2. 

High in his flaming chariot borne, 
Bright Phcsbus darts a golden ray ; 

The lark salutes the blushing morn, 
And music breaks from every spray. 



148 

Creation pours a general strain 

To Him, whose bounty cheers the plain : 

Secure the fleecy wand'rers sport, 
And crop the meadow^s dew-besprinkled bloom : 

While Flora spreads her ample court, 
And mingled sweets the spicy gale perfume. 

I. 3 

Now let us pierce the grove's embowVing shade. 

And gain th' aspiring mountain's arduous brow ; 
Gay dew-drops glitter on each spangled glade. 

And freshened verdure smiles on ev'ry bough. 
And see, what lovely prospects rise ! 

With waving corn the vallies teem, 

Which, gilded by the solar beam, 
Like seas of gold enchant my^eyes. 
Here lofty Mendip lifts his towVing head. 

And the twin brooks in friendly channels flow ; 
Majestic oaks their revVend honours spread. 

And tender saplings with soft foliage blow : 
There hoarse Sabrina rolls her sainted tide, 
And purling streams in smooth meanders glide^ 



149 



II. 1. 

While the warm eye with rapture strays 

Through wide Creation's rich domain^ 
Or rambles in her woodland ways, 

Or in her proud majestic reign, 
All mortal accents are too faint 
The magic of her charms to paint. 

Come then, my Muse, direct thy way 
Where gentler charms and milder beauties dwell; 

There thou mayst tune thy wandering lay, 
The praise of Piety and Worth to tell. 

II. 2. 

Deep in the broider'd vale's recess, 

Evander's smiling mansion lies ; 
Gay rural sweets the moments bless, 

With Peace, immortal Virtue's prize. 
Remote from Earth's tumultuous pow'r, 
Devotion hails the lonesome bow'r : 

Fair Concord lifts her laureFd mien ; 
Domestic joys enlivening bliss afford ; 

And Love, to crown the joyful scene, 
Spreads a fair offspring round the friendly board* 

o 



150 



II. 3. 

No venal guardian damps (W unwilling hearts 

With sordid precepts and monastic lore ; 
The strenuous parent heav'nly truth imparts, 
And various Wisdom opes her ample store. 

The busy task Attention plies, 
The list'ning children stand around 
With gifts and genial praises crown'd, 
While transport glistens in their eyes. 
Now they review Creation's painted scenes ; 

Now Wisdom's page inspires the falt'ring tongue, 
Grammatic lore assiduous labour gleans, 
, And infant voices lisp the sacred song. 
Delightful scene ! let wondVing ages find 
The parent, tutor, friend, and guardian join' d/' 

III. L 



Thrice happy seat of pure delight ! 

These are the joys Retirement knows ; 
Increasing pleasures charm the sight, 
With downy peace and glad repose. 
Ye sons of wealth I your heaps enjoy, 
Till sordid stores the bosom cloy : 



t( 



151 

Ye sons of grandeur ! strain each nerve, 
Uncertain praise and giddy powV to gain :-*- 

Let me a nobler bliss preserve, 
And tread with humble feet the peaceful plain- 

III. 2. 

Be mine to rise at earliest dawn, 

And nature's bounteous King adore ; 
And wand'ring o'er the purple lawn, 

To cull the meadow's balmy store. 
Almighty Grace ! with holy fire 
My bosom warm, my heart inspire : 

Let me, from earthly cares releasM, 
With humble ardour pour the suppliant voice ; 

On hallo w'd joys for ever feast, 
And fix on heav'n alone my steadfast choice, 

HI. 3. 

Celestial Dove ! thy sacred succour bring ; 

Teach me to wake the sweetly sounding chords 
In powerful notes redeeming love to sing, 

And Jesus' dying mercy to record. 
My steps to Calvary's summit guide ; 

Thence may reviving beams of light 

Dispel the dreary shades of night, 
And show how vain is earthly pride* 



152 

Let Faith and Hope their healing balm bestow ; 

Let heav'nly joys my drooping heart regale : 
Thus let my life in placid currents flow, 

With silent course, through sweet Retirement's 
vale, 
Till by degrees the lessening shores retreat, 
And circling waves the boundless ocean meet. 



TO PEACE. 



AvAUNT, detested fiend of war! 

Hence with thy direful train : 
Sheath, sheath thy sword, rush to thine iron car, 
Drawn by red dragons o'er th' embattled plain, 

And seek the realms of night again I 

Long has thy sword been drunk with blood ; 
Long has Despair impetuous stalk'd around, 
Thick down the mountains roU'd the crimson flood, 
And shrieks of woe the trembling shores resound. 
With heart of steel, and eyes of fire, 
Swift to the Stygian depths retire : 



153 



Pale Hate, that licks a brother's gore, 
With Envy, Pride, Ambition, Lust, 
The panders of thy rage no more, 
Hurl'd from their thrones shall bite tiie dust. 
Ye brazen gates ! your massy folds upheave, 
And all the bloody band receive, 
Bound in an adamantine chain, 
And whelm 'd in fiery gulfs, for ever to remain^ 
But come irom Heaven, immortal Peace, 
And bid discordant Fury cease. 
Celestial PowV ! whose hallow'd away 
The blest empyreal plains obey ; 
Haste^ with gentle radiance crownM, 
Whose rays shall spread the earth around ; 
Swift from thy golden throne arise, 
And cheer Britannia's longing eyes ; 
In ail thy soft undazziing pride 
Through parting clouds triumphant ride z 
Then let thy flame-wingVl coursers bear 
Thine empty car through yielding air* 
But thou, delightful Goddess ! deiga 
On earth to fix thy lasting reign ; 
Gay tranquil joys to man restore. 
And spread thy sway from shore ta shore* 
Wiiere'er thy glad'ning smiles descend,, 
A lovely train thy steps attend : 
Rich Commerce ploughs the watry mai% 
Fir'd by the charms of useful gaias: 
J 2 



154 

Crowned with bright wreaths, the tuneful Nine 

With votive lays adorn thy shrine ; 

Fair Science sheds her cheering light^ 

And dissipates the mental night ; 

Portentous Ignorance retires, 

And Art her chosen band inspires. 

Full-handed Plenty treads the lawn, 

With roseate Health, at earliest dawn ; 

And, dancing o'er th' enamel'd mead, 

Their lovely quire the Graces lead ; 

While fair Civility displays 

Her friendly smiles and fostering rays. 

Swift may the circling moments fly^ 
Till man thy beaming car descry. 
Thrice happy day, thrice welcome hour, 
When earth shall feel thy tranquil pow'r ; 
Then shall the thunders cease to roll, 
Whose peals affright the turbid pole : 
No more shall eager warriors rise, 
Or the shrill clarion rend the skies ; 
No more shall martial tempests roar, 
Or deserts reek in human gore. 
Where late the sanguine toi rent rolled, 
The swains their waving crops behold. 
The bending falchion cleaves the land. 
Obedient to thy blest command ; 
The bloody sword and gory spear 
Touch'd by thy hand a scythe appear i 



155 

^r in the rustic mansion Ire, 
The sport of tender infancy. 
While many a falt'rrng tongue repeats 
His warlike grandsire's wondrous feats. 
Wide o'er the rampart's mould'ring heights- 
Sweet verdure glads th' admiring sight, 
And round the castle's shatter'd towers 
Fair ivy twines her op'ning flowers. 

No more shall fainting nations groan, 
But thy celestial sceptre own. 
The smiling meads shall laugh and sing, 
Rich with the flowVy gifts of spring ; 
And warbling quires on every spray 
Tune to thy praise the joyous lay. 
Thy glittering temple shall arise, 
And crown'd with beauty meet the skies.. 
There, with due homage, man shall bow. 
And carol forth the grateful vow ; 
And many an ardess shrine erect, 
With fruits and votive garlands deck'de 
No blood shall stain the sacred ground^, 
No victim feel the deadly Vjround y 
But vernal flow'rs of fairest hue, 
And roses bath'd in sparkling dew, 
With golden sheaves and purple wine, 
By swains preferr'd, shall grace thy shrine«> 

When, in his golden chariot borne^ 
Bright Phcebus gives the rosy morn ;, 



156 

Or when, In milder beauty dres% 
He decks with gold the glowing west^ 
As oft the shepherd winds his way 
Through meads with yellow harvests gaj^ 
His oaten reed, with tuneful song, 
The sweetly murmuring streams along^ 
To listening forests shall proclaim, 
O lovely Peace ! thy darling name. 

Fair Ceres' gifts, that gild the vale, 
The placid eve, the balmy gale. 
The purling rill, the friendly shade, 
The meads with blooming flowVs array 'd. 
The rapturous music of the grove, 
Wh ..re sportive tribes securely rove, 
Shall sound thy praise in glowing strains, 
Whose hand with plenty robes the plains, 
Secures to man the blessings given, 
And makes on eai'th a little heaven,. 



RECOLLECTIONS 



OF 



A SUMMER'S DAY. 



Wide o'er the earth, in sable clouds arrayM, 
Overshadowing Night extends her blackest shades^ 
No cheerful moon displays h^r smiling mien, 
No glimm^'ing star illumes the dreary scene, 
But drifting snows the labVing earth assail, 
And angry tempests desolate the vale, 
While Boreas thunders with resistless force, 
And stops with icy hand the streamlet's course. 
Ah! where is now Creation's blooming pride ? 
Where the gay scenes to vernal hours allied ? 
No more the wild-bee murmurs o'er the lawn,. 
No more the lark salutes the rosy dawn ; 
But while the groves by chilling blasts are torn, 
And the bleak plains their rifled graces mournj 



158 

What shall the Muse's languid breast inspire, 
Or bid her fingers wake the dormant lyre? 
Oft have I sat beneath the hawthorn bower. 
While social converse cheer'd the livelong hour, 
Caught the wild warblings of the woodlark's throat, 
Or the lorn nightingale's enamour'd note ; 
Where o'er each bank the blushing violets bloom'd, 
And op'ning flow'rs the breezy morn perfum'd. 
Led by retirement's hand, with glowing thought. 
The tufted vale and echoing grove I sought ; 
And, far secluded from the busy throng, 
Wak'd on my jocund pipe the rural song. 
And nurs'd the visions of romantic ease, 
Sooth'd by the murm'ring sound of branching trees. 
But time has laid their verdant honours low, 
And not a leaf adorns the whiten'd bough. 
And not a warbler glads the cheerless day, 
But Desolation sweeps her headlong way. 
Yet though no more enchanting scenes invite, 
No vernal charms the ravish'd sense delight, 
Still may the Muse inspiring objects find. 
And Nature's wealth enrich the Poet's mind. 
Ethereal pinions memory's powV supplies. 
And bids the soul with eager transport rise ; 
Her magic hand a faithful glass displays. 
To renovate the scenes of happier days ; 
Again the flow'rs of rich-rob'd Summer blow, 
Again the fruits of purple Autumn glow ; 



159 

The musing heart, with oft-reverted glance. 
Sees former joys in cheerful throngs advance. 
Let others woo Diversion's treach'rous aid, 
The reeling dance, the courtly masquerade, — 
Urge the dull round of fashionable woe, — 
Groan as they smile, and sicken as they glow ; — 
For them let Comus pour his venal strain. 
With amorous nonsense, or the jest profane ; 
For them let Drury's crowded scenes appear. 
Rouse the false laugh, and prompt th* affected tear, 
And midnight sports their fleeting years consume, 
Till Death drives headlong to the yawning tomb ; 
Be mine the pleasure of the rural board, 
Which sacred Science and Retreat afford. 
Sweet Peace, an exile from the giddy throng. 
Lifts her fair head Retirement's haunts among. 
Imparts a blessing to the vain denied, 
And lasting joys unknov/n to pompous pride. 
O come, bright fugitive ! with blest control 
Guide my rapt fancy, and exalt my soul ; 
O'er my glad heart thy genial warmth diffuse, 
And aid with vivid pow'rs thy daughter muse : 
Let memory's pow'r retrace the vernal scenes, 
Unfading landscapes and perennial greens, 
With fancied bliss amuse the vagrant thought, 
And rove in fairy bow'rs, wuth deathless beauty 
fraught. 



160 

See, at her voice a new creation springs, 
Exulting Fancy claps her eagle wings : 
Swift o'er the clouds, by sportive zephyrs dra^Tij 
Rob'd in the radiance of the purple dawn, 
In magic hues, resplendent from afar, 
The light-wing'd Goddess rolls her beamy can 
By her sustained, my soul the tempest braves, 
Mounts o'er the tow'ring hills and foaming waves. 
And glides, fair Millwood, to thy rural sheds, 
Thy groves revisits, and thy vale retreads. 
These, when effulgent Summer's liberal hand 
Flung her gay flowrets o'er the laughing land. 
To my rapt gaze their blooming charms displayed. 
And woo'd me to their dear sequester'd shade. 
Now, when no more the scenes in prospect roll, 
Their pictured views enchant the pensive soul, 
And the fair visions of ideal joy, 
Deck'd with fantastic grace, my captive thoughts 
employ.. 
Fair was the rising dawn : o'er every glade 
Fresh verdure smil'd, and balmy zephyrs play'd : 
When, ere the dewdrop left the spangled thorn, 
Ere Titan's rays illum'd the dappled morn, 
With Philidore I trac'd the dewy mead. 
Where Nature's op'ning charms her votaries lead. 
And stray'd, Avonia, by thy wand'ring tide. 
Where tow'ring Vincent bares her rocky side, 



161 

And Bristol's turrets, gilt by Phosphor's beam^ 
Inverted glimmer in the tranquil stream. 
Primaeval Peace her brooding wing unfurl'd, 
And not a sound annov'd th' unconscious world ; 
Save when, resounding from the dusky tower, 
The slow- voic'd clock proclaim'd the passing hour^ 

Now when the mounting sun with orient ray 
Glow'd o'er the hills, and gave the cheerful day, 
Round the broad strand a ling'ring look we threw, 
Thy mingled scenes, O Industry, to view. 
And gaz'd admiring on the wealth-crown'd mart^ 
Blest with each gift of Nature and of Art, — 
The balmy produce of Sabsean fields, 
And the rich stores that either India yields, — 
And oh ! how grateful to the judging mind. 
By Virtue's heav'nly sympathies refin'd. 
To view that mart, whose crowded vessels bore 
The blood-stain'd ofFspring of Caffraria's shore, 
By Slavery's guilty load no more debas'd, 
But with the wealth of liberal Commerce grac'dl 
No more the tortur'd captive's piercing cries 
Chill the 'pall'd heart, and reach the frowning skies ; 
But cheerful seamen wake the jovial strain. 
To celebrate the glories of the main.- — 

Now the proud dome, by pious Canning rear'd. 
With awful grandeur in the skies appear'd; 
By virtues toil in peerless beauty wrought. 
Where many a sage religious dictate's taught. 

p 



162 

And here, in haunts to Sol's bright rays unknown, 
Where Superstition rearM her ebon throne. 
Our pitying eyes surveyed the lonely cell. 
Where Chatterton awoke the tuneful shell, 
And bade his lyre the deep-ton'd music roll 
With pleasing raptures o'er th' enamoured soul. 
Sweet Nature's child I accept the tribute paid 
By fond affection to thy honoured shade : 
Though pallid want thy mortal hours distrest, 
Thy genius wither'd, and thy fires deprest ; 
Still round thy grave unfading flow'rs shall bloom, 
And weeping Muses ever mourn thy doom, 
Bards yet unborn shall drop the kindred tear, 
Embalm thy memory, and thy name revere. 

Now, from the city's gloomy scenes withdrawn, 
We trod th' enamel'd mead and verdant lawn, 
Where laughing swains, with hearts for ever blithe, 
Plied with assiduous hand the glitt'ring scythe, 
And at each stroke the fairy webs o'erthrew, 
From blade to blade prolong'd, and gemm'd with 

dew. 
Now o'er aspiring hills we bent our way. 
Pausing to catch the blackbird's mellow lay. 
To pluck the wild-flow'r from its dewy cell. 
Or count the herds that whiten'd o'er the dell. 
Where'er we gaz'd enchanting prospects smil'd, 
And social converse the long way beguil'd, 



163 

Till from the cloud-topt mountain's arduous height, 
Thy scenes, sweet Millwood, met the ravish'd sight* 

Deep in a vale the decent mansion rose, 
Where clustering elms the cultur'd plain enclose 5 
Full many a hamlet's lowly cots appeared. 
And loftier domes around their summits rear'd : 
Here low-land meads displayed their chequer'd 

green. 
There Mcndip^s oak-crown'd head confin'd the 

scene ; 
Where heav'n-taught More in active virtue trod,— 
Friend of her race, of wisdom, and of God j 
And gen'rous Whalley, rapt in rural ease. 
His mansion shelter'd in embow'ring trees,— 
The lonesome woods with artful beauty grac'd, 
And crown*d with waving corn the brambled waste* 
Yet nought so dear the wand'ring eye surveyed, 
As thee, lov'd Millwood, and thy sylvan shade, 
Where tasteful Art and bounteous Nature meet, 
And heav'nly Peace sustains her blissful seat. 

As the light skiff, impell'd by fav'ring tides, 
On Avon's placid wave serenely glides ; 
So did my days in silent lapse succeed, 
Crown'd with each pleasure, from each sorrow 

freed. 
When, cheerful Mil wood, in thy shades embowerM, 
High o'er the scenes of earth my fancy tower'd ; 



164 

No more by visionary gleams misled, 

To dazzling pride and syren pleasure dead, 

My chastened soul renounced the dreams of youth, 

And sought her pleasures in the arms of Truth ; 

Celestial Peace her lasting joys infused, 

And Nature's charms my sportive hours amus'd. 

Oft would I rise, ere yet the morning beam 
ChequerM with roseate tints the twilight gleam, 
Court the soft breezes on the fir-topt hill. 
Or trace the windings of the devious rill. 
The voice of joy is heard in every seat, — 
The heifer's low, — the lambkin's tender bleat, — 
And plumy choristers from every tree 
Pour the rich strains of nature's minstrelsy. 
And while thy works a gen'ral anthem raise, 
O Father of all worlds ! to sound thy praise, 
Shall man alone th' adoring song deny. 
And lift to Heav'n the vain-presumptuous eye ? 
No : at Religion's shrine, with filial joy. 
Oft would my soul her noblest pow'rs employ ; — 
Oft would devotion, with ecstatic lay. 
By all but Heav'n unheard, her homage pay, — 
And bid the joys of blinded man farewell. 
On Heav'n's anticipated bliss to dwell. 
She points each work in Nature's mystic plan 
To the unheeding heart of haughty man ; 
And as she gazes with renewM delight 
On all the wonders of creating might. 



165 

She wakes to artless notes the trembling string, 
Loud in His praise, who gave the powV to sing. 
Now when the sun with brighter radiance 
glow'd, r 
To Millwood's dome my feet retrac'd their road, 
Whose virtuous master bade his rural clan, 
Ere the brisk hinds their daily toil began, 
With duteous love th' Almighty King adore, 
Resound his goodness, and his grace implore. 
Ye senseless infidels, with jeering pride. 
The supplicint voice of humble faith deride, — 
Your conscience lull, with mad'ning hopes elate,. 
And wander blindfold on the verge of fate, — 
Kiss the base chains that rivet to the earth. 
And drown Reflection's call in boist'rous mirth ; 
Yet pause awhile amid your festive roar. 
And the scorn'd Christian's lowly cell explore : — - 
His are the boundless joys ye seek in vain. 
And his the peace, which Pride shall never gain :: 
Borne on the pinions of immortal faith, 
With hope, triumphant o'er the pangs of death, 
Still shall his bosom raise th' unceasing pray 'r, 
And trust the guidance of Almighty care* 
The mighty Father of immortal years. 
Who rolls in radiant march the circling spheres, 
Bows to the suppliant voice a gracious ear, 
Checks the lone sigh, and stops the starting tear ;. 

p 2 



166 

Soothes with immortal hope the care-worn breast. 

And gives on earth a gleam of heav'nly rest. 

Ye sons of earth, pursue your gilded toys, 

And linger in the haunts of fleeting joys ; 

The meteor happiness eludes your gaze, 

And each light blast overthrows the bliss you raise. 

Now whtrn the urn had pour'd its hissing tide, 
And China's stores our morning wants supplied, 
Our strenuous thoughts to various labours bent. 
The noontide hours in healthful cares we spent. 
Thy voice, Evander, bade the menial throng 
With cheerful mind their busy work prolong ; 
Firm, though benignant, — gentle, though severe, 
While every rustic bent si duteous ear ; 
And willing love a purer service drew 
Than e'er the proud insulting tyrant knew. 
And oft, by Virtue's genVous dictates led. 
From plain to plain thy willing feet have sped ; 
Thy liberal hand reliev'd Affliction's load. 
And led the recreant step to Wisdom's road, 
Pleas'd the drear haunts of latent woe to seek. 
And wipe the tear from Sorrow's faded cheek, 
While strong benevolence thy heart refin'd. 
And Heav'ns own flame inspir'd thy vig'rous mind, 

Here, from the scenes of crowded life retir'd, 
By pure affection's warmest impulse fir'd, 
Her infant train the mother's care instructs, 
And the soft heart in virtue's path conducts. 



167 



With flattering gifts and well-tim'd praises crowned, 
The list'ning children ply their tasks around j 
Th* expanding mind receives the sweeten'd lore, 
And various Wisdom opes her a^ple store. 
Thrice happy parents ! in whose blooming race 
Each rising virtue blends with every grace ; 
Thrice happy children ! in whose rev'rend sire 
Prudential care and watchful love conspire. 
Such charmful scenes transcend the Muse's praise,"^ 
Too weak her lyre, too faint her loudest lays, k^ 
A tributary song in equal notes to raise. j 

Meanwhile, with glowing heart and hasty feet, 
I bent my way to Learning's still retreat. 
Where many a work of honour'd genius stood, 
The golden records ©f the wise and good. 
No senseless volumes, innocent of thought, 
With empty words and idle fiction fraught ; 
No visionary tales, supinely dull. 
Yet oft of Folly's choicest treasures full ; — > 
No novels,* form'd to tarnish rising age. 
And fan th' imperious passions' latent rage, 
And with curst aim unguarded youth entice 
To the wild mazes of alluring Vice ;■ — 
But ye, celestial train ! whose tow'ringmind 
Unwearied strove, to noblest toils consign'd. 
To stem Profanity's impetuous tide. 
Crush the proud bulwarks of triumphant Pride, 



1 



168 

And advocate desponding Virtue's cause, 
Deaf to the voice of censure or applause : — 
On every shelf your glorious labours shine, 
Where heav'n-taught genius breathes in every 

line, j 

And glowing Truth proclaims her source divine. J 

And not alone Religion's votaries meet, 
But every science finds a welcome seat : 
Here bards,"^ by hallow'd inspiration taught, 
Display the highest pow'rs of human thought. 

Ye lovely monitor's, whose cheering voice 
InspirM your humble votary's earliest choice, 
And cheated into joy my youthful hours, 
With the soft magic of your tuneful powers. 
When sportive childhood taught my feet to rove 
To the still valley or the waving grove. 
Dear were your numbers to my answering heart, 
And bade each wish for empty mirth depart : 
Still let your guardian energies remain, 
Still in my breast your wonted force retain ; 
Lift my fond wishes from the toys of time. 
Correct each passion, and each thought sublime. 

And thou, companion of my youthful way, 
Beloved harp, — prolong thy tender lay. 

* Milton, Young, Cowper, &c.. 



169 

Oft hast thou cheer'd my wand'rings in the vale 
Of bitter tears, or giv'n the tender tale, 
When Love's soft glow, or Fancy's glittering views, 
With sweet enchantment could my hours amuse. 
And while my feet o'er life's bleak mountains 

press, 
Still let thy soothing tones my fancy bless ; — 
Cheer the lone path, alleviate every care, 
And the sweet songs of ardent hope prepare. 
While Faith directs me to that joy- crowned shore 
Where sins annoy, and dangers threat no more. 
And when strong faith expires in certain bliss, 
And Heav'n's full joys the pow'rs of hope dismiss, 
Oh let me join the chorus of the sky, 
Beyond the stars that deck the vault on high ! 

Then let my fingers touch a loftier string, 
Then let my voice a louder anthem sing ; 
My rescued soul amid the chosen quire, 
Sons of almighty Love, shall tune her lyre, 
Low at His feet with holiest ardour fall. 
Raise the full song, and hail him Lord of All ; 
Whose bounteous arm for every want provides, 
Whose mercy fosters, and whose wisdom guides ! 
Now when the cheerful mansion's rustic board, 
With Nature's gifts in frugal plenty stor'd, 
The full repast had spread for every guest, 
By labour sweeten'd and by temperance blest, — 



170 

The cheerful hours elaps'd in silent flow ; 

Each heart was fir'd with Friendship's mutual 

glow ; 
From Fashion^s dull frivolities releasM, 
Each opening bosom shar'd the mental feast — 
Then the rich treasures of the lettered page 
Withdeathlesscharmsour willing thoughts engage ; 
Pleas'd we survey, by faithful travellers shown, 
The mingled beauties of each distant zone, 
And then the moral strain our eyes explore, 
And feast, O Virtue, on thy sacred lore. 
Far was the sland'rous fiend, whose venom'd dart 
Wounds with malicious aim the guileless heart. 
Assails an absent neighbour's honest name, 
Or nips the laurels of ingenuous fame. 
No idle talk on fashion's varying course, — 
No empty mirth, detraction's endless source,— 
But fairer scenes in heav'nly forms appear, 
And sweeter accents vibrate on the ear. 

Such were the joys that serious thought endear'd, 
Nor these alone our circling moments cheer'd ; 
No stoic thralls the pining soul confinM, 
Or steelM with apathy the listless mind ; 
But guiltless Pleasure, in her maiden pride. 
With all the sister Graces at her side, 
O'er each warm heart her pleasing transports shed^ 
By Reason cherish'd, and by Virtue fed. 



3 71 

Gurs'd be the wretch, who taught the baleful art, 
Whose poisonous influence damps th' aspiring 

heart,-^— 
Bow'd at the shrine of Pride, and call'd her 

Truth, 
And check'd the blameless energies of youth. 
For say, did Heav'n th' unconscious heart ordain^ 
Senseless alike to pleasure and to pain i — 

But see, while Evening o'er the western main 
Hails her bright star,^ the leader of her train ; 
See, in blithe bands, by rustic ardour sped, 
The thronging tenants of the turf-built shed, 
Guide o'er the plains, in russet garb array'd, 
The ripen'd produce of the deeming glade. 
Their useful toils the high-pil'd harvests crown, 
And Nature smiles in glories all her own ; 
Gay peals of rapture fill the echoing bounds. 
And " Harvest Home'' from hill to hill re- 
sounds. 
In social converse, round the cottage door. 
The merry swains partake their festive store, 
And honest hearts, to Nature's feelings true, 
The scenes of bliss with thankful hope review : 
In soft responsive peals the village bells 
With varying cadence cheer the broider'd dells ; 
While calm Reflection, in the brown-rob'd wood^ 
Pours her warm accents to the Source of good, 



172 

And to His praise attunes her grateful powVs 
Who bids the vales rejoice, and glads the laughing 

hours. 
Ye too, whom infancy's fond bliss delights, 
May share the joys which social mirth invites ; 
For see, with lightsome heart, serenely gay, 
Yon busy group direct their eager play. 

When yellow radiance gilds the glimmVing spires, 
And twilight's hand unveils the starry fires, 
Oft would I seek the closing hours of eve, 
Pleas'd the false world, and all her pomps, to leave. 
Watch the pale glow-worm's ineffectual beam, 
Or Cynthia's image dancing in the stream : — 
Reflective Wisdom, with angelic mien, 
Has cheer'd my wand'ring in the silent scene ; 
And while her heav'n-directed eye survey'd 
Spring's varied bloom, or summer's grateful shade. 
When the full year its plenteous produce shower'd, 
Or ice-bound winter's foaming tempests lower'd. 
Her glowing heart that Sacred Presence own'd, 
Which, though in Heaven's empyreal height en- 

thron'd, 
Conspicuous shines, with matchless might confest, 
In the green vale by vernal flowrets drest. 
As when his mandate rais'd the spangled pole. 
And bade the starry train effulgent roll, — 
As when cherubic harps his pow'r confess, 
And flaming tongues his boundless mercy bless, 



173 

From Earth's delusive pageantries retir'd, 
With holy awe and pensive rapture fir'd, 
She gaz'd enchanted on the bright abode, 
Where dauntless worlds proclaim their forming 

God, 
And, join'd in spirit with th' angelic throng, 
BreathM from her glowing heart the vesper song. 

' Thus fiow'd the tenour of the livelong day, 
Iltum'd by sacred Pleasure's fostVing ray. 
When youthful Time prolonged the joys of Spring, 
And scattered blessings from her downy wing. 
And say, can all the scenes of grov'ling mirth, 
Whose empty charms enthrall the sons of earth, 
One wishful thought in Virtue's breast excite. 
While scenes like these her passing hours delight? 
For me, whate'er the righteous doom ordains,— 
Enchanting pleasures or afRictive pains, — 
O let me still in rural ease reside, 
Rapt in the bliss to busy Pomp denied, 
And, far remote from Fashion's giddy round, 
Thy praise, Creator God, for ever sound 1 
And oft, by memory lighted on her way, 
With printless foot shall truant Fancy stray, 
And thou, dear Millwood, in whose peaceful cl41s 
Fair Pleasure smiles, and laughing Plenty dwells, 
Where, crown'cl with bliss, my light-wing'd mo- 
ments flew. 
With friends belov'd, and transports ever new,—- 



174 

Though enviousFate requires my distant stay, 
Still shall remembrance all thy charms display. 
My wishful heart desires a kindred spot, — 
Some pansied valley, with a smiling cot, — 
Where my tir'd feet in rural peace may rest, 
Freed from the ills that busy life invest. 
There should the warblers unmolested roam, 
And the lone robin find a welcome home ; 
There the first violets of the spring should blow, 
And blooming flowVs their mingled beauties show. 
Around the porch should mantling ivy twine. 
And spreading oaks su])port the clustering vine ; 
Here, would kind Heav'n a lovM associate send, 
My life to solace, and my walks attend, — 
A book, my studious leisure to beguile, 
With honest ease, and health's enchanting smile, 
And the sweet muse each varied scene t' endear, 
Exalt each pleasure, and each sorrow cheer, 
Pleas'd would I pass my life's allotted hour, 
Unenvious of the joys of pride or pow'r. 
And earth's vain dross with pitying eye contemn, 
Possess'd of Solitude's immortal gem. 
Sworn to no system, blinded by no sect. 
Come, hallow'd Reason, and my course direct ; 
Oh ! teach my struggling heart, with heav'n fix'd 
choice, 
To smile in sorrows, and in death rejoice ; 



175 

Blest in the lot by guardian Wisdom given. 
On earth to antedate the joys of heaven. 
And when my feet have run their destin'd course^ 
Unnerved my vigour, and extinct my force, 
Freed from this cumbrous tenement of clay, 
Let heav'n-born Peace iUume my parting day; 
I^d by His arm, who died from death to save, 
My steadfast soul shall triumph o'er the grave ; , 
Faith shall direct my w^ishes to the ^ky, 
:\nd holy Hope instruct me hov/ to die 3 



A POETICAL EPISTLE 

TO 

R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

(Author of « Elements of Self Knowledge^'' « Mkcel- 
lanies in Prose and Verse^'* t^c, £5*c. ^c. 

Occasioned by the Perusal of his " Kirkstall Abbey i 

a Poem. 



How sweet the sacrecj Poet's tow'ring song ! 
How soothing to the soul the varied notes, 
That warble from the lyre, by skilful hand 
To magic tones attuned ! 'Tis sweet to hear 
The choral symphonies of plumy throngs. 
As, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew, 
Their flowing accents bless th' Omnific Lord, 
Who taught their tribes, by judging instinct leda 
To rear the downy mansion, that derides 
The toils of human art, and showVs around 

9.2 



178 

His choicest favours. Glorious are the lays 

Of pious melody, v/hen tuneful tongues, 

" The pealing organ, and the pausing quire," 

Raise the full anthem of celestial praise. 

Yet sweeter vibrates on the ravish'd soul 

The Poet's heav'n-taught voice, when Fancy wakes 

The sounding wire, and nature's artless notes 

Melodious echo from the past'ral reed, 

When the rapt Muse in wisdom's lore instructs 

The willing mind ; — in pleasing bondage holds 

Each vagrant thought, and stamps with lenient 

hand 
Fair Virtue's image on the yielding soul. 
And still more potent flows th' aspiring note 
When, 'mid the mould'ring abbey's lonely pile, 
Stupendous wreck of ages, the glad soul 
Wings from terrestrial scenes her daring flight ; 
And pours in Reason's ear the solemn strains 
That erst on Siloe's bank from Cherub's hai-p 
Sublimely broke : " Glory to God on high : 
Peace to the jarring scenes of earthly strife !" 
And Contemplation bids the chastened thought, 
Freed from its veil, review the mingled scenes 
Of crowded life ; with filial awe confess 
The present Deity, and humbly bow 
With new-born fervour at his holy shrine. 

Sweet are creation's charms ; yet sweeter still 
Ev'n Nature's beauties burst upon the sight, 



179 

And livelier joys inspire, when faithful songs 

To the mind's eye the vivid scene portray. 

Whatever the spacious universe contains, 

Of splendid, awful, beauteous, or sublime. 

Still beams with brighter splendours on the soul. 

With nobler graces, if the fav'ring Muse 

Her powerful succour lend. The purling stream 

More softly murmurs in the Poet's song; 

Creation's smile is brighten'd, and the quires 

On every spray a sweeter anthem raise. 

The Muse can bid the fading landscape glow 

With never-fading colours, and restore 

Each vivid scene that happier hours display'd. 

These to the mind a secret charm convey. 

That calms the turbid thought ; restrains the wish 

That violates immortal Virtue's laws; 

Blunts th^ keen dart of melancholy care, 

Alleviates every sorrow, and inspires 

Serenest joys and wisdom's pure delights. 

Oft in meand'ring childhood's mirthful hours, 
With airy freedbm wandering from thy haunts, 
Enchanting Fulneck ! and thy verdant seats, 
Mv playful youth's abode, my careless feet 
Have gaily rov'd among the lonesome wrecks 
Of Kirkstall's ivied cloisters, and my eye 
With sorrowing pleasure linger'd on the scene. 
Oft have I carv'd my name with sportive pride 
Deep in the tott'ring pillars, sculptur'd round 



180 

With frequent knife by many a rustic hand. 

Oft have I proudly trod the moss-grown height, 

Where erst religion's holy ministers 

To list'ning throngs proclaimed the boundless love 

Of HIM, whose fiat bade this goodly frame 

From chaos rise, and bore the tempered soul 

On strong devotion's eagle wing to Heav'n. 

Here wuth faint ardour, down the naked aisks 

I pour'd my feeble voice, and vainly strove 

To bid the roofs re-echo to the sound. 

Then gaily sporting on thy tufted edge, 

Soft murmuring Aire ! with juvenile compeers, 

Have tried what prosperous hand could furthest 

hurl 
The fleeting stone ; and favoured was the wight 
By reckless youth esteem'd, whose potent throw 
Attained the distant shore : and oft supine 
Reposing on the tufts that grace thy side, 
Beneath the osier shade, my hands have cast 
The dangling line, and with alluring bait 
EnticM the finny tenants of thy flood 
To willing death ; and ohi what speechless joy 
Fir'd the glad bosom, when the yielding cork 
Declared the certain prey, and, rear'd aloft. 
The quiv'ring line displayed the struggling perch, 
The glittering gudgeon, or the ponderous trout. 
In ambient air suspended. Little thought 
Unconscious youth of transitory time, 



181 

Of duties undischargM, and many an hour 
In idle sport and thoughtless pleasure past. 
Yet the fair scenes amus'd the languid years 
Of growing childhood ; and my panting heart, 
When the bright gudgeon trembled on my line, 
GlowM with as much delight, as graver heads, 
Vot'ries of haughty manhood's fonder game. 
Feel when at grandeur's highest aim arriv'd, 
Crown'd with insane ambition's brightest wreath, 
For martial victories, or the latent tracks 
Of nobler art explored. 

These blended scenes, 
That charm'd my sportive childhood, still delight 
The retrospective soul, when memory's hand 
With glowing pencil draws each daisied mound, 
Each op'ning prospect, and each placid joy 
Which lur'd my infant feet, and every charm 
That youth bestow'd. And well my pensive heart 
Recalls the deepened awe, which Kirkstall's fane 
Inspir'd, when first her wild majestic walls 
Burst on my wond'ring fancy. Yet more fair, 
With nobler beauty and sublimer awe, 
They strike the bosom, in thy painting verse. 
Instructive Dallas i shown. Thy soaring notes 
Give to each stone a more than mortal tongue, 
And paint the vivid landscape to the soul, 
In colours, brighter than the borrow'd hues 
Of mimic art afford. 



182 

And not alone thy varied verse displays 
Creation's beauties, but, in glowing strains, 
Unlike the languishing seductive lays 
Of modern minstrels, rouses in the soul 
Immortal flames, and bids the wond'ring eye 
In every scene Creation's form unfold ; — 
Behold the Sacred Presence in the haunts 
Of busy men, — through Nature's rural charms. 
The mouldVing abbey, and the rising pile. 
The mazy streamlet, and the roaring flood, 
Alike confest. How lovely to review, 
With soul-ennobling glance, the vision'd scenes 
Of human life ! How healthful to the mind 
The noiseless hour, when silenc'd fancy lies 
In silken fetters bound, and sinful man 
Holds converse with his God ! Important hour ! 
When conscience, faithful monitor ! repeats 
Each latent crime, that, from th' untutor'd hours 
Of giddy childhood to maturer age, 
The blushing sun beheld. Though deepest shades 
Of mantling night with tenfold gloom involv'd 
The guilty deed ; — though no terrestrial eye 
Survey'd ; — nor empty Rumour's brazen throat 
To mortal ears declar'd ; — yet mem'ry's pow'r 
At this still moment to the shudd'ring heart 
Presents th' unhallow'd action, and, array'd 
In hideous pomp, innum'rous phantoms rise, 
The ghastly spectres of each impious deed^. 



183 

Each slaughtered hour ! The bosom vainly strives, 

With ineffectual efforts, to remove 

Th' unwelcome sight. She calls the wanton aid 

Of Fancy to dispel the vengeful scene ; 

She bids the soul on future pleasure dwell ; 

Rove the gay round of visionary bliss ; 

Recall the past amusement, and depict 

Ideal scenes her haunting fears t** allay : 

Yet calls in vain !— -for conscience still pursues 

The struggling victim, — cries with thundVing 

voice, 
*' Your guilt confess in penitential tears. 
Prone at your Maker's feet : while humble grief 
Inspires the contrite pray'r and fearful sigh, 
And warmly supplicates redeeming grace." 

Urg'd with relentless speed, the rolling hours 
Of mortal life depart; with endless course 
Year follows year, and every silent breath 
Conveys us nearer to the fatal bourne. 
Each year removes some pleasure that amus'd 
Our former days : a rev'rend parent falls ; 
A lov'd relation, or a faithful friend. 
Life's noblest treasure, feels th' impartial stroke 
Of all-consuming Death, and cries aloud, 
In strains that will be heard, " Thou too must 

fall ! 
Prepare, fond youth, prepare to meet thy God I" 
The natal day returns ; — intemperate mirth, 



184 

The flowing goblet, and redundant feast, 
Inflame the swelling heart with venom'd joy, 
Bid the swift hours with swifter course depart, 
Each thought corrupt, nor leave a moment's pause 
For calm reflection. — Thus their hours recede : 
And oh ! how few through Nature's peopled 

bounds, 
When the sad knell proclaims another year 
For ever gone, like thee to serious thought 
Th' important period consecrate ; reflect 
On Life's perpetual frailties, and confess 
That earthly joys are vanity and woe ! 
How few, like thee, with penitent regret 
Lament the waning hours of busy life 
In bootless trifles squander'd, and implore 
Celestial grace, with animated hope 
And glowing faith ; to tread with constant step 
Fair Wisdom's blissful paths ; with holy joy 
To spurn terrestrial vanities, and grasp 
With eager hand Religion's golden prize ! 

Proceed, delightful bard ! to sacred strains 
The hallow'd chords attune, and nobly raise 
To sacred symphonies thy dauntless voice. 
Let others pour the visionary song, 
In tinkling measures, '^ innocent of thought," 
Sooth the sad soul to sleep with lovelorn lays ; 
Or the fond thoughts from Virtue's flow'ry path 
To Vice's maze seduce with fatal art, 



185 

More deadly than the Syren's luring song 

Let others warble adulation's note, 

And lull with opiate fumes imperial pride, 

Or titled vice : — be thine the nobler task 

T' attune celestial numbers, and repeat 

To Albion's mirthful swains the solemn song. 

And while each breast with youthful ardour glows, 

And fading pleasures lure the wandVing feet 

Far from the paths of duty and of peace, 

To gloomy deserts, let thy wand'ring Muse 

Sound on each heart, with heav'n-descended lays, 

Instruction's accents ; Vice to misery guides^ 

Virtue to ceaseless bliss* Though blinded crowds 

Scoff and deride thy monitory note, 

Still shall fair Virtue's genuine children love 

Thy welcome song : a never-dying fame. 

Secure beyond th' assaults ©f giddy time, 

Or envying censure, shall for ever crown* 

Thy steadfast labours. When the venal herd 

Sink in oblivion's gulf, thy lovely Muse 

Shall bloom in native charms, and future bards 

Embalm thy mem'ry and thy name revere, 

Religion's Poet, and th' instructive guide 

And faithful monitor of Albion's youth. 

R 



186 



BRITANNIA j 



OR 



THE POLITICS OF A RECLUSE 

As the lone wand'rer from the beacon's brow 
Astonish'd views the raging waves below; 
While fraught with death the mad'ning tempests 

roar, 
And many a wreck deforms the sea- beat shore, — 
He hears the Tempest Fiend wild tumult raise, 
And the dire scene with pitying eye surveys. 
Yet stands uninjurM on th' impervious rock. 
And braves the foaming billows'* frustrate shock : — 
So, from Retirement's visionary height. 
Oft has my fancy rov'd with eager flight ; 
Heard war's loud din re-echo through the land. 
Seen slaughtered myriads press th' impurpled 

strand, 
While mad Ambition, and impetuous War, 
RoU'd o'er the blood-stain'd earth their adaman- 
tine car. 



187 

Yet oh ! remote within the hawthorn bower, 

(Blest be th' Almighty Father's guardian power!) 

Or gently wandering by the peaceful cell, 

I heard of miseries which others felt. 

The thunders roarM around my peaceful cell, 

But the red bolt on distant regions fell. 

And as I lay, by dangers undistrest, 

Far from the woes that other climes invest, 

To Britain's God my grateful songs arose, 

Whose pitying mercy crush'd her angry foes. 

Bade the loud yell of inborn discord cease, 

And gave the raptures of domestic peace. 

O'er every clime where genial zephyrs blow, 
And boisterous Ocean's billowy waters flow, 
My tow'ring soul her vent'rous flight pursu'd 
Their manners noted, and their scenes reviewed 
Yet nought so beauteous on the varying globe, 
Where fost'ring iEther spreads her ambient robe, 
And nought so glorious could my fancy trace, 
Deck'd with such matchless charms and lasting 

grace. 
As thee, fair Albion ! and thy sea-girt isle. 
Where various gifts with envied lustre smile. 
Fav'rite of Heav'n, whose spreading honours 

shine, 
From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line, 
Whose pearless navies plough the foaming tide, 
Crown'd with triumphal wreaths and conquering 
pride j 



188 

Blest be that Power, whose guardian love protects 
Thy favoured regions, and thy bliss directs. 
No blood-stain'd victors riot on thy plains, 
Or load thy trembling sons with galling chains ; 
No fearful clarion echoes through thy streets, 
To rouse thy children from their lone retreats : 
No slaughter'd myriads welter in thy vales, 
No plaintive murmurs fill the tainted gales. 
Still, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew. 
Thy rustic sons their peaceful toils pursue ; 
The fleecy wanderers crop the flow'ry food, 
And plumy songsters warble through the wood ; 
No mad'ning foes thy rural scenes invade. 
But Ceres' gifts replenish every glade ; 
The wild bee murmurs through the blooming fields, 
And the glad year its pregnant produce yields; 
And oft at evening, round the cottage door, 
Thy vigorous swains partake the frugal store, 
QuaflFthe full bowl, the lovelorn ditty sing, 
And shout. Long live Britannia's glorious King i 

And not alone with nature's bounty blest. 
Thy peaceful sons enjoy perpetual rest ; 
And not alone Abundance crowns thy marts, 
And social quiet every bliss imparts ; — 
But nobler gifts propitious Heaven allows. 
And fairer blessings claim thy grateiui vows : 
For on thy plains, in native splendour bright, 
Divine Religion sheds her cheering light ; 



IS9 

The shades of blinded ignorance dispels, 
And in the favour^ land conspicuous dwells ; 
With sacred light her glowing lustres show 
The path to ceaseless bliss or lasting woe ; 
Her faithful powers illume the grov'ling crowds 
Exalt the humble, and abase the proud ; 
And many a Portcus, firM with holy zeal, 
Bids erring man his guilty nature feel, 
With heavenly truth assails the deafen'd ears, 
Or with sweet strains the contrite bosom cheers ; 
Then to the Cross the wounded sinner guides, 
To wash for ever in the crimson tides* 
See Superstition, mantled in the storm. 
Hies from the plains, and hides her haggard form ^ 
While pure Devotion from the sky descends, 
Thy glory fosters, and thy peace defends. 

And o^er thy meads, adorn'd with blooming 
flowers. 
Life's noblest bliss, immortal Freedom towers ^ 
Alike the peasant and the prince protects. 
Binds in one chain and by one law directs. 
Not lawless Anarchy, whose hell-bom sway 
Lures the fond crowd, then tramples on her prey ^ 
Not the fell fiend whose pow'r by myriads curst, 
In ruthless mis'ry Gallia's realms immers'd ; 
But sacred Liberty, divinely fair^ 
Friend to the world, and Nature's darling care i 

r3 



190 

From clime to clime by revVend sages led, 
By Reason foster'd and by Virtue fed. 
Her cheering vigour to thy sons decreed, 
Crowns every bliss, and gladdens every mead : 
High o'er thy realms, unmov'd by party strife, 
She guards their peace, their treasures, and their 

life, 
Hurls into night Oppression's murdVous band, 
And heaps with lasting joys thy favoured strand.- 

Rage, ye loud storms! assault our peaceful shore; 
Ye wild winds ! riot, and, ye tempests ! roar : — 
While sacred Liberty, with eye serene, 
Smiles on our plains, and animates the scene ; 
While pure Religion darts her heav'nly ray, 
And rich-rob'd vales their plenteous gifts display : 
Still shall our voice th' Almighty Maker bless, 
Resound his goodness, and his powV confess. 

Frail are the sons of earth. Her brightest 
climes 
Groan with increasing guilt, and countless crimes : 
Yet thee, with Heav'n's peculiar bounty blest, 
My natal shore ! peculiar crimes infest, 
And basest sins almighty love requite, 
While Seraphs shudder at the fearful sight. 

Stay, stay, ye sporters on Perdition's brink, 
Behold th' expanse below ! — behold, and think ; 
Ere yet the quivVing thunderbolt shall fly, 
While mercy yet receives the suppliant cry ; 



191 

Ye sons of Albion's guilty shore ! be wise ;— 
No more your Maker's proffer'd call despise ; 
With humble penitence approach His throne, 
To whom the secrets of each heart are known ; 
Attend the mandates of his gracious will, 
And sacred Virtue's heav'nly calls fulfil, 
Lest, when too late, you mourn th' avenging rod, 
Vindictive thunders, and an angry God, 



192 



AN HYMN, 



TRANSLATED FROM THE HEBREW. 

Th' Almighty Lord, whose sovVeign sceptre swayM 
Yon azure plains, by trembling hosts obey'd ; 
Ere in the void the starn' orbs were hung, 
Or Nature's goodly frame from Chaos sprung; 
What time, arising at his plastic word, 
The fair creation own*d its glorious Lord ; 
Then was he hail'd " Supreme, eternal King," 
While prostrate angels touched the golden string* 
And when the orbs that gild the sky decay, 
And earth in wild confusion lades away ; 
He will alone, tremendous Monarch, reign, 
And armM with endless might his sway sustain. 

He was, he is, and shall for ever be, 
CrownM with immortal pow'r and majesty. 
He is the glorious One ; and who can vie 
With Him, whose nod controls th' obedient sky I 
No second powV his mighty sway can share. 
Or with the Source of life and strength compare* 

From vast eternity his reign began, 
And with swift course through circling ages r^i ; 



IP 



rt 



And when revolving years shall cease to roll, 
And fleeting suns forsake the darken'd pole, 
Nought shall Jehovah's boundless age confine, 
Contract his powV, or bid his love decline. 
His sure control shall sway the seas and land, 
And conscious worlds obey his high command; 
While the bright hosts that tread th' empyreal plains, 
With sacred awe confess, '' Jehovah reigns." 

This is the God, in whom my soul confides, 
Whose guardian care my feet in safety guides. 
This the sure friend, whose arm my life redeems, 
This the blest fount, from which my comfort 

streams ; 
This is my steadfast rock ; " a rock that braves 
The raging tempests, and the rising waves ;" 
Firm in his strength I dwell in soft repose, 
And view secure the rage of angry foes. 

My glorious banner, my divine retreat. 
My blissful lot, with heav'nly joys replete ; 
Whose gracious ear my suppliant voice attends, 
Whose powerful arm my trembling life defends ; 
My guardian bulwark, and almighty shield, 
'Tis to thy ciregwith joyful trust I yield ! 
By day and ni^t with gracious hand protect, 
And through the maze of life my steps direct. 
The Lord is mine ; — secure in him I rest. 
Fear shall no more invade my tranquil breas^* 



194 



AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 

LONDINI 

CHIRURGUM CELEBERRIMUM, 
J. D- WORGAN, S. P. D. 

ILLUSTRISSIME VIR^ 

Accipe ignoti tibi poetae munuscula; 
crroribus veniam concedas, juvenisque qui vix sex- 
decem annos vidit, ignoscentia relegas poemata. 
jNon herculc poeseos nitore, non Horatii aut 
Ansteii divino cestro, mea carmina exornantur; 
ast 

Illud amicitise sanctum et venerabile Numen, 

me quoque tuas laudes iniquo tentare carmine 
jussit ; et dum Jenneri, tuisque laudibus, extrema 



♦ 



terrarum littora resonant, 



Et meae (si quid loquar audieBuum) 
Vocis accedet bona pars. 



Cheltenham^ 
jfanuariis Calendis^ 1807* 



Vale, 



195 



AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 

LONDINI 

CHIRURGUM CELEBERRIMUM. 

Audin ? Qui soni tus auribus irruunt ? 
Quae voces, miserum mistse ululatibus, 
Europse subito terrificant metu 
Gentes, cordaque permovent? 

Audin ? Jam videor cemere fervidos 
Heroas, gladios sanguine sordidos 
Stringentes ; resonant litora martio 
Fletu, terraque contremit. — 

Bellatorum alii facta furentium 
Stridenti celebrent carmine, sertaque 
Nect^nt temporibus: — Non citharse graves 
Martis conveniunt modi. 

*^ Nymphae, noster amor," Pierides metu 
Perculsae fugiunt, et trepidc petunt, 
Quem digni decorent laude, et honoribus 
=^ternis cumulent lyrae. 



196 

Jam jam perspiciunt turbida litora, 
Aha et voce rogant : " Quis bonus adstitit 
Moerenti patriae ? Quis bonus emicat 
Humani generis pater ? 

" Quis, stans intrepido corde, calumnias 
Audacesque minas provocat hostium? 
Cceli et munifico percitus ambitu, 
Aufert terrigenis mala ? 

" lUius decorent tempora floribus, 
Formosaque hedera, Pimpleidum chorus ; 
Illius citharse factaque praedicent 
Humani generis patris." 

Non dux, terrificum militiae decus, 
Non cristatus eques, turbave bellica ; — 
lUorum comitat pallida mors viam, 
Dura et subsequitur fames. 

Non qui, luxuriis doctus inanibus, 
Gonsultus vacuse stat sapientise : 
Horum vana perit gloria, firmaque 
Virtus nomina rejicit: 

Sed qui, despiciens munera divitum, 
Funestis hominum prsebet opem malis ; 
Vitam pacificis excolit artibus, 
Genti vinclaque sublevat. 



197 

Vos ergo, celebres, litoris Anglici 
Splendor ! Vos, medici T Tuque, salutifer 
RiNGi, perpetuae mcenia glorise, 
Scandetis pede prospero. 

En ! quali radio filius emicat 
Sabrinse! rutilum laudibus efFcret 
Nonien posteritas, grataque concinet 
Vaccinae strenuuni patrern ! 

Nee, RiNGi, meritse percipient tua 
Laudis facta minus : vivet in omnia 
Clarum saecla decus, nescia termini 
Stabit famaque debita. 

Musarum eximiis lauribus emines 
Cingendas, propria luceque spiendidus ; 
Seu pollente manu pallida febrium 
Pergas agmina pellere ;— 

Seu, fulgore micans, iEgida proferas 
Vaccinae rutilara ; dextraque, lanceam 
Divinam quatiens, Variolae fugam 
Invisse pueris dedit. 

Augustse miscris turba parentium 
Complebant ululans moenia fletibus, 
Et lugent lacrymis (heu ! nimis irritis !) 
Matris vulnere gaudium. 
S 



198 

Abreptum subito, et virginis ictibus 
Mactatam faciem,— jam gemitus sonant ;- 
Frustra ; — non speciem restituit dolor, 
Saevae aut Persephoni placet. 

Tu, RiNGi, studio gnarus ApoUinis, 
Matrum perpetuis corda timoribus 
Solvis, suppedltans scutum adamantinum, 
Ccelesti auxilio potens, 

Dilectae soboli praesidium dare : — 
Jam crebrc volitent ebria sanguine 
Circum Variolae spicula — provocat 
Pubes incolumis minas. — 

Indefessus iter carpis in avias 
Mendacum latebras, laetus et eripis 
Insanae teg-umen nequitiae, genus 
Firma suppliciis manu. 

Vecors afficiens ; — caeca cohors furat 
Insana rabie ; spargat anilibus 
Commenta Improbitas nisibus ; — aurea 
Perstat, te duce, Veritas. 

Et (seu magnanimus, concutiens comas, 
Invictis domitor viribus insilit 
Sylvarum, trepidis agminibus ferum, 
Instantem minitans necem, 



199 

Et crebro lacerat corpora vulnere ; 
Dum, terrore citi, corripiunt fugam, 
Et spelsea petunt, nocte recondita, 
Sylvasque haud penetrabiles 

Titanis radio :) — Sic, rapido pede, 
Vaccinae stolidis irruis hostibus ; 
Nee, pergens alacer, prselia deseris, 
Donee victa jacet cohors, 

Invitoque gradiis retrahit ; irritam 
Exhalans rabiem, falsaque compitis, 
Mendacis cerebri progeniem, ferens, 
Nativas tenebras petit. 

Siiblimi solio, Variolam fugans. 
Jam Vaccina sedet f Ti^que perennibus 
Victorem probitas laudibus accipit, 
Nomen grataque prsedicat. 

Nee tantum medicis prseditus artibus 
Splendes : — umbo tnws munera praebuit. 
Phoebus : Paeoniam scire potentiam, 
Dextram viribus instruens j 

Et pulsare manus dulcisonae fides 
Aurato docuit pectine /Ba^CiTu^ 
Atque OS prsecipuit fundere carmina^ 
Sacro numine percitum. 



200 

Quam suavi clthara Pleris Handeli 
Divinam cecinit gloriam, honoribus 
L^tis commemorans nomen, et emula 
Fulgens splendida Batll. 

\Ansteius, propriis praedita gratiis, 
Cui splendet salibus lucida paglna, 
Vestris auxillis matribus Anglicls 
Vaccinae recinit decus. 

Et nunc Agricolis docta Britannicis 
Reddet Virgilli Musa Gebrgica : — 
Ileus! tandem j&r^/?^ra, neve diutius 
Secretum teneas opus. 

Matris progeniem donee Amor fovet 
Ferventi gremio : — donee imaginem 
Ipsius genitor diligit, almaque 
Mortales Pietas regit : — 

Exardens juvenum dum recolit cohors 
Artes ingenuas, Musave pectora 
Vatum laeta movet ; — dumque levamina 
iEgrotis medici ferunt ; — 

Vestris attribuet Candida Veritas 
Laudem promeritis :— nil valet hostium 
Mendacum rabies : — nil mains impetus : 
— ^Rupes aequora provocate — 



201 

Ofvobis facilis lentaque profluat 
Annorum series ; lenia prasbeat 
iEternus Genitor guadia, terminum 
Lsetumque accipiet dies. 



s 2 



J. D. W. 



202 



AN ELEGY, 



WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1807. 



BY the pale embers of the fading fire, 
Rapt in the dreams that Hope and Love inspire, 
1 keep my vigils, listening to the gale 
That makes wild music down the twilight vale. 
When the tirM sense is hushM, and calm repose 
Steals o'er the heart at ev'ning^s tranquil close, 
Tis sweet to bid a crowded world farewell. 
And seek ideal bliss in Fancy's cell. 
Touched by her wand the thronging thoughts arise 
From earth's dim scenes, and mingle with the skies. 
The raptur'd soul escapes her mortal frame, 
An d speeds her vent'rous course on wings of flame, 
Pierc es the shades of night with eagle gaze. 
Or looks undazzled on th^ empyreal blaze, — 
Rides on the pennons of embattled storms. 
And holds high converse with aerial forms — 
But hark ! — on yonder blast what accents float 
^Tis the sad death-bell flinc-s its hollow note : 



J"- 



203 

It bids my mind from airy visions turn, 

The sad realities of life to mourn. 

And has stern Fate against thy throbbing heart 

At length, my Ambrose, hurl'd th' expected dart ? 

Too sure thy doom is fix'd : the passing bell 

Gives to the murm'ring winds thy mournful knelL 

Methinks the spirits of the night I hear 

Their mystic dirges muttering o'er thy bier ; — » 

Methinks the lineaments of death I trace, 

The sunken eyeball, and the livid face ; — • 

The shroud's dim folds thy wasted limbs array, 

And fierce Corruption hovers for her prey* 

Adieu, fair Fancy, to thy glitt'ring views ; 
Their charms are dimmed by Sorrow's black'ning 

hues : 
Take the dear phantoms from my musing soul, 
Which awful thought and hallow'd grief controL 

Ambrose, thy race is run, — thy toils are o'er ; 
Thou dwellest where distress can wound no more : 
In the still paths of life thy feet have trod, 
And soon shall rest beneath the peaceful sod. 
What though no trophies glitter to thy praise, 
Nor Glory greet thee with her echoing lays t 
Thine is a nobler boast ; — with moistened cheek 
Thy narrow dwelling-place shall Friendship seefc^ 
And truth, thy leader through the paths of earthy 
Shall tell thy children of departed worth. 



204 

And say, while pity heaves the sigh sincere, 
** A son of honoured Virtue slumbers here." 

That hand, which lies transformed to pallid clay,- 
Has wipM the tear from Sorrow's cheek away : 
That deafen'd ear has caught the half-breath'd sigh 
Of modest want and hapless Industry : 
That silenc'd tongue has wakM the mirthful glow, 
Or bade the strains of sacred Wisdom flow : 
And in that lifeless heart (though stain'd within, 
And stamp- d with many a trace of native sin) 
Yet Holiness a new-born dwelling rear'd, 
Where each bright grace of heav'nly growth ap- 
peared ; 
New life she gave, and righteousness, and peace, 
From Him, w^hose pard'ning mercies shall not 

cease ; 
RousM by her quickening powV, the heart arose 
Triumphant o'er the world, its joys, and woes ; 
And, as on earth it own'd a Saviour's Icve, 
Is own'd by Him before the hosts above. 

Lamented and rever'd I — shall artless Truth 
Speak thy lull honours through the lips of youth I 
And though thou scarce hast known my humble 

name. 
Shall my wild harp thy virtuous praise proclaim ? 
Yes ! — for the sons of Virtue shall be dear 
To ©very heart, and claim the general tear^^^ 



205 

And though, by Fortune's varying will opprest, 
Ne'er was my bosom with thy friendship blest ; 
Ne'er did mine eyes behold thy mortal form, 
Ne'er did thy voice my kindred fancy warm ; 
Still o'er thy tomb, by sacred sorrow led, 
Let the fond muse her humble offering shed ; 
Weep for her woe, whose bursting sighs bemoan 
Her tender guide and lov'd associate flown : 
Weep for thy babes, on life's wide ocean tost. 
Their watchful sire and steadfast guardian lost ; 
Weep for the poor, whose tearful eyes behold 
The dark damp vault their strenuous friend enfold ; 
Weep for myself, lamenting thou hast died. 
Ere mutual friendship had our souls allied. 

But see ! what rays the midnight shades illume ; 
What heav'nly splendours pierce th' incumbent 

gloom ! 
Cherubic glories beam along the sky, 
And angel forms salute the wondering eye ! 
Mute be the plaintive note !— I rise ! I rise 1 
Immortal Faith her eagle v/ing supplies : 
She lifts my fancy from the tufted sod, 
To Sion's mansions, and the throne of God. 
Hushed be the voice of woe ! — celestial peace 
Calms my sad soul, and bids the tumult cease. 
Methinks, transported to that blissful shore, 
Where heavenly quires Almighty Love adore^ 



206 

My ravish'd eyes innumerous throngs behold 
Strike with ecstatic joy their lyres of gold, 
And round Jehovah's awful throne unite, 
In emerald crowns and robes of ambient light. 
And who are they, yon bright exulting band, 
Who round their Father King for ever stand ; 
With grateful zeal prolong th' adoring strain, 
And shout, " All glory to the Lamb once slain ?*' 
These are the ransom'd throng, who firmly press'd 
Through life's rough storm, with heav'nly succour 

bless'd ; 
These are the joyful train, whom hallow'd woes 
Bade on their Saviour's dying love repose : 
Now, as with Him they suffer'd earthly care, 
With Him they rest, and all his triumphs share. 
And who is he, that shines with vivid grace, 
While sacred beauty sparkles in his face ; 
Who wakes to sweetest notes th' obedient lyre, 
While speechless joys his ravish'd thought inspire t 
— 'Tis Ambrose ! — It is he ! — Methinks I view 
His visage crown'd with splendours ever new ; 
And oh ! how alter'd from the child of woe, 
Depressed by sickness, and the fatal blow ! 
Beyond the tow'ring fancy's loftiest sway, 
In realms of aether and immortal day, 
High on a radiant throne he sits sublime. 
And views with pitying scorn the scenes of time. 



207 

He sees the guilt-stain'd pageantries of Earth, 
How brief her glories, and how vain her mirth; 
And could a thought of mortal misery dart 
Across the perfect angel's glowing heart, 
-Fain would he cry to many a blinded throngs 
*' How transient time ! eternity how long !'' 
And bid each gale the solemn strain repeat, 
*^ Prepare, fond man, prepare thy God to meet," 

Cease then, my soul, thy fruitless murmur still, 
And bow obedient to the .Sovereign Will. 
That death, which prompts thy fondly-naournful 

plaint, 
Bore to celestial peace the conquering saint. 

And thou, blest partner of his ardent love, 
Doom'd the full powers of grief and joy to prove, 
Oh ! cease to mourn the frowns of alter'd fate, 
Thy lost associate, and thy widow'd state. 
Surrounding griefs may damp the starless night, 
Prompt the deep sigh, and many a tear excite ; 
But heav'n-born rays shall deck the morning skies, 
And the bright sun with healing beams arise. 
There is a Power Supreme, whose mighty sway 
With prostrate awe contending worlds obey ; 
Oh ! let thy soul his cheering voice attend : 
*' I am the drooping widow's changeless friend ; 
And I will stand the orphan's faithful guide, 
Crush every foe, — for every want provide." 



a 



08 



His plastic world th' aerial plain controls, 
Guides the wide world, and rules the spangled 

poles ; 
And shall not he thy bounded wish supply ? 
Oh! banish fear, and on his arm rely. 
Still shall his guardian care thy steps direct, 
Thy children foster, and thy cause protect ; 
Blunt the keen darts of anguish as they fly. 
And wipe the tear-drop from each moisten'd eye, 
Till, when thy soul, from mortal bondage freed, 
While earth-born glories from thy view recede, 
Mounts on the wings of Hope, and borne above 
To the blest regions of delight and love. 
Thy bounding feet the sacred mansions tread. 
And lambent glories deck thy star-crown'd head* 
And while th' unutterable transports rise. 
Thy long-lov'd Ambrose shall salute thine eyes ; 
There in ecstatic bliss your souls shall meet, 
Your crowns of glory cast at Jesus' feet ; 
Join with seraphic hosts the duteous lay. 
Your Saviour God adore, and endless homage pay. 

And ye, who weep for your departed sire, 
While big tears roll, and mutual groans transpire, 
Oh ! while you mourn the father and the friend, 
His dying precepts let your hearts attend. 
Bid the pure signs of holy grief appear. 
And bow to Wisdom's voice a willing ear : 



209 

And while your feet o'er rising life shall stray, 
And many a care annoy the toilsome way, 
Oh ! keep your father's image still in view, 
His virtues emulate, his course pursue ; 
Live, by fair Virtue's genuine sons belov'd. 
And die, by Conscience and by Heav'n approv'd* 

Blest spirit ! if, yon starry spheres among, 
Thine ear can listen to a mortal's song, 
Smile on the warblings of a weak-ton'd lyre, 
Which Friendship wakes, as Truth and Love in- 
spire 
And oh ! may he, whose feeble hand would raise 
To sacred worth a monument of praise, 
Tracing thy progress to the world unknown, 
Aspire with thee to hail the Saviour's throne ! 
When circling years the solar beam obscure. 
There may weshine,of endless joy secure; 
When the dim stars driv'n from their centre fly, 
And lawless ruin sweeps th' embattled sky, 
Still shall his arm our faith and hope sustain ; 
Still shall we bask in Sion's griefless plain ; 
Smile at frail earth in countless atoms hurl'd, 
Expiring nature, and a flaming world ; 
Join the full concert of uniting spheres, 
Rise o'er the wrecks of time, and bloom in endless 
yeara. 

T 



AN ADDRESS 



TO THE 



ROYAL JENNERIAN SOCIETY. 

rOR THE EXTERMINATION OF THE SMALL-POX, 
BY VACCINE inoculation; 

ON THEIR ANNIVERSARY FESTIVAL, MAY ITTH, 1808, 



LOUD sounds the clarion through the turbid air, — 
Wide oVr the plains impetuous legions glare ; 
To arms I To arms ! the panting heroes cry, 
To arms ! To arms ! the vocal shores reply, 
Britannia's sons the patriot impulse feel, 
Rush to the fight, and bare the conqu'ring steel ; 
While martial ardour fires the dauntless throng, 
And raptur\l Poets raise th' inspiring song. 
But ah I the tumults of the sanguine field 
To Virtue's throbbing heart no transport yield* 
Contending hosts, the trumpet's loud alarms, 
The shouts of conquest, and the din of arms,, 



212 

Awake no raptures in her gentle thought, 
I^ike the glad strains by rescu'd nation's taught, 
When gaunt Destruction's crimson flag is furPd, 
And heav'n-born Peace renews a wasted world. 
She saddens at the load of ghastly cares, 
Which man for man with studious toil prepares : 
To softer themes she wakes the willing lyre, 
Warm'd with a purer flame of sacred fire ; 
And, while each vale with notes of mirth rebounds. 
Thy praise, divine Philanthropy, she sounds. 
Is their a heart whose generous passions glow 
To share another's joy, — another's woe? 
Is there a breast, by Pity's flame refin'd, 
That pants to work the bliss of human kind ? 
To you, blest Patriots of the world, she 

sings — 
To you the Muse her humble tribute brings. 
That blissful train her brightest pahns receive^ 
Whose heav'nly toils the suff 'ring earth relieve ; 
And, on this day, when Albion's chiefs conspire 
From Glory's mad'ning vortex to retire. 
And hail with votive songs the natal hour 
Of him who stopp'd Contagion's deadly power, 
Rous'd with a warmth to vulgar themes unknown. 
She turns to joyful strains the plaintive groan : 
And, while her hands unfading chaplets twine 
Around her Jenner's honoured brow to shine, 



210 

She sounds that name, to Britons ever dear, 
Which checks the infant's moan, the parent's tear,. 

Mute be the cannon's roar ! — yt thunders, cease I 
Ye sprightly tabrets, wake the notes of peace : 
Let Albion's virgin train his glory speak, 
Who shields the roses on the vermeil cheek : 
In festal songs, ye parent band, reply, 
While Joy's bright tear-drop glistens in each eye ; 
And lisp HIS name, ye blooming infant throngs, 
Whose heav'n-directed arm your vital breath pro- 
longs. 

Let others urge the glittering toils of War, 
Yok'd to Ambition'^s desolating car ; 
Rush to th' ensanguin'd plains, or, madly brave, 
Impel deluded myriads to the grave : 
'Tis thine, bleat Jenner, with auspicious hand^ 
To chase one Demon from the trembling land,— 
Avert the fainting babe's impending doom^ 
And rescue nations from the yawning tomb. 

Too long Variola, with blood-stain'd vest, 
ProwFd o'er the plains, and shuddering earth op- 

prest ; — 
Chill'd the sad heart, polluted ev'ry gale,, 
And spread^ontagion o'er th' affrightedvale*. 
Ye agonizing train, who drop the tear 
Of speechless anguish o^er th' infantile bier ;. 



T 2 



214 

Ye lovers, doom'd in beauty's prime to mourn 
Your dear associates from your bosom torn ; — 
Oh ! say what ills have prey'd on hopeless man^ 
Since, curs'd Variola, thy reign began, 
Affection^s groan, — the parent's piercing cry, — 
Rose on each gale, and echo'd to the sky. 
Th' Almighty Father heard the death! ul moan, 
And bade Compassion leave her starry throne ; 
Swift at his voice the meek-eye'd seraph flew. 
Till earth's blue mountains glimmer'd in her view, 
With downy pinion cleft th' aerial way. 
And bade her wand the tide of anguish stay. 
Far from the crowded haunts of empty fame, 
She wakM in Jenner's breast a kindred flame ; 
Straight in his hand a steely point she plac'd, 
With matchless pow'rs and guardian virtues gracM, 
And said: "With this yon speckled fiend 

disann ; 
With TMs, Contagion's rav'nous fury charm ; 
This shall relieve the parent's drooping soul. 
Sweet hope inspire, and anxious doubt controul.^' 
Rous'd at her strains, with Virtue's hallow'd 

glow, 
Content his rural pleasures to forego, 
His steadfast heart sustained the toilsome care, 
That eveiy clime his healing gifts might share. 
With strong benevolence, his tow'ring mind 
The lures of wealth and private gain resign'd. 



215 



While distant chiefs, by Wisdom's dictates led, 
Wide o'er each land Vaccina's blessings spread. 

^ See 1 at Philanthropy's divine command, 
Thy sons, Iberia, quit their native strand ; 

* The expedition to which this passage alludes, is 
of a nature unprecedented in the annals of history, 
A detailed account of its origin and completion has 
appeared in a Supplement to the Madrid Gazette of 
Oct. 14th, 1806, which informs us, that "on Sunday, 
the i7th of September last, Dr. Francis Xavier Bal- 
mis, Surgeon Extraordinary to the King of Spain, had 
the honour of kissing his majesty's hand on occasion 
of his return from a voyage round the world, execu- 
ted with the sole object of carrying to all the ultra- 
marine possessions of the crown of Spain, and to those 
of several other nations, the inestimable gift of Vac- 
cine Inoculation.*' Dr. Balmis, accompanied by se- 
veral members of the Faculty, sailed from Corunna 
on the 30th of November 1803, carrying with him 
twewty-two children, who had never undergone the 
small-pox, for the purpose of keeping up a succes- 
sive series of inoculations, and effectually preserving 
the vaccine virus during the voyage. The expedition 
proceeded in two divisions, which severally circum- 
navigated the globe, disseminating Vaccination as 
they went, through every nation, whether friends or 
foes. They communicated it, among the rest, to the 
English, at St. Helena, and to the Visayan Islands, 



216 

With dauntless hope innumerous toils they dare, 
From pole to pole the vital gift to bear. 
No deep-mouthM cannons thunder o'er the main, 
No sanguine fights the placid wave distain, 
But smiling Peace her olive-branch displays, 
And faltering infants lisp their Guardian's praise, 
As on their arms the sov'reign shield they show, 
Whose heav'nly powers repel th' eruptive foe, 
With mystic charm extend the fleeting breath, 
And blunt the direst of the shafts of death. 

From the bleak plains, which lasting snows over- 
whelm. 
To Lybia's wilds, and Afric's parching realm ; — 
From boisterous Oronooko's headlong streaq^j. 
To where the Brahmin hymns the solar beam ; — 
Vaccina reigns, with deathless honours crown'd, 
And spreads her glad'ning influence wide around j 
And here, commissioned from the realms above^ 
Demands a nation's thanks, a nation's love. 

"the chiefs of which," say& the Gazette, *' accustom- 
ed to wage perpetual war with us, have laid down 
their arms, admiring the generosity of an enemy, who 
conferred upon them the blessings of health and life, 
at a time when they were labouring under the ravages 
of an epidemic smali-pox." In the progress of the 
expedition 230,000 persons were successfully vacci- 
nated, 



217 

In vain would Envy, with her venal horde, 
Assail that name by distant climes ador'd,^ 
Or hellish Avarice, leaguM with Death, obtain 
Her private interest from the public bane, — 
Ye sordid minds, to genuine worth unjust. 
Roll in your native mire, and lick the dust. 
But know, Vaccina claims a loftier fame, 
While thronging patriots bless her honoured name ; 
And, as her friends with liberal ardour meet. 
To pour their bounteous offerings at her feet, 
Britannia crowns the deed with just applause, 
And beams propitious on the glorious cause ; 
A long-lovM king his generous aid combines. 
And Truth, obscur'd in vain, triumphant shines. 
These are our glories :f — and, while these remain, 
Still shall Vaccina spread her cheering reign ; 



* A letter which is printed in page 104 of this vo- 
hime contains an account of a ceremony annually prac- 
tised among the Germans, which fully justifies this 
expression, however improper it may appear. 

fin forming an esthnate of the merits of Vaccination 
the Author would be unwilling to repose upon the opi- 
nion of an individual, of a society, or of a nation. But 
the experience of the whole world has given the most 
decided testimonialin favour of the practice; andshould 
any secondary testimonial be required, the evidence 
of the Royal Coiieges of Physicians and Surgeons, of 



218 

Still shall her healing energies extend, 
Our cares alleviate, and our race befriend ; 
And future ages, wondering as they read 
Of woes, which once the speckled filud de- 
creed, 

London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, which, after the most 
laborious investigation, was had before the British 
Senate, must convey peculiar satisfaction to the mind 
of every Englishman. Their report contains an im- 
partial discussion of the subjects, and concludes by 
stating " that they feel it their duty strongly to re- 
commend the practice of Vaccination. They have 
been led to this conclusion by no preconceived opi- 
nion, but by the most unbiassed judgment, formed 
from an irresistible weight of evidence which has been 
laid before them. For when the number, the respec- 
tability, the disinterestedness, and the extensive ex- 
perience of its advocates, is compared with the fee- 
ble and imperfect testimonies of its few opposers ; 
and when it is considered that many, who were once 
adverse to Vaccination, have been convinced by fur- 
ther trials, and are now to be ranked among its warm- 
est supporters, the truth seems to be established as 
firmly as the nature of such a question admits ; so 
that the College of Physicians conceive that the Pub- 
lic may reasonably look forward with some degree of 
hope to the time when all opposition shall cease, and 
the general concurrence of mankind shall at length be 
able to put an end to the ravages at least, if not to the 
existence, of the Small-Pox/* 



219 

Shall bless that arm by gracious Heav'n designed 
T' avert the deadly scourge of human kind, 
And, as their tears embalm th' illustrious dead. 
In Freedom's cause who conquer'd or who bled^ 
To Jenner's name a grateful world shall raise 
The well-earn'd monument of deathless praise. 



SONNETS. 



SONNET L 

TO AFFECTION. 

Sweet nymph, who wander's! o'er the tufted vales, 

Warbling soft minstrelsy, while op'ning flowers 
Thy twining locks embrace, and balmy gales 

With love-fraught accents fill thy jasmine bowers; 
Oh ! come, my sorrowing moments to beguile, 

And bring the speaking look, the tender sigh, 
The timid glance, the soul-enchanting smile, 

And the soft tear that flows, unknovv^ing why* 
By the still streamlet, o'er the dewy mead, 

While Philomela trills her melting lay. 
Thy favouring star my willing steps shall lead, 

And one lov'd friend endear my lonely way. 
The joys of Apathy let others prove ; — 
Be mine the sweet solicitudes of Love. 

u 



222 



SONNET IL 
TO A FRIEND GOING TO LONDON, 

From the dear village and its flow'ry dell, 

To Pride's tumultuous scenes thy feet must go ; 
See, where Augusta's glittering turrets swell, 

Wide-blended haunts of pleasure and of woe 1 
And while thy soul to Wealth and Fame aspires, 

Thou'lt scorn the vale in Nature's beauties drest ; 
But say, — can glory satiate thy desires ? 

Can shining gold atone for banish'd rest ? 
'Tis o'er a gloomy waste we're doom'd to tread. 

And wiser they, who strew their path with 
flowers ; 
Twine the gay chaplet for their weary head. 

And nurse bright visions in Retirement's bowers; 
Than they, who toil in Grandeur's idler schemes, 
Yok'd to the car of Pride, or luU'd in Glory's 
dreams* 



223 



SONNET III. 

HOME.— TO A FRIEND. 

Friend of my heart, whose feet with mine would 
stray 
From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line ; 
Ah ! why to distant climes direct our way ? 

What scenes more bright than yonder woodlands 
shine ? 
There, in some cot, from busy toils withdrawn, 

To us shall Friendship's noblest joys be given ; 
Together will we rove at peep of dawn, 

Together watch the friendly star of even* 
And oft, beneath the pale moon's pearly ray, 

We'll linger near some fountain's murm'ringfall^ 
Catch the sweet nightingale's congenial lay, 

And bless with grateful songs the Lord of AIL 
Oh ! whither Would our flutt'ring fancy roam, 
While Friendship, Health, and Peace endear our 
tranquil home ? 



224 



SONNET IV, 

PLEASURE. 

Haste then, ye wandVers to the haunts of Pride ; 

Tread the gay circles of the mazy dance ; 

With reeling hearts in Pleasure's wilds advance, 
And breathe her poisonous gales. — Where Avon's 

tide 
Rolls in light murmurs to the western deep, 

Meanwhile I rest, and on her willowy shore 

Sit listening to Sabrina's soften'd roar. 
Or watch the sea-gull o'er the rocky steep 
His circling flight pursue. — Devotion's power 

Lifts my freed spirit to th' empyreal plains ; 
On Ecstacy's immortal wings upborne. 

My glowing heart your grov'ling bliss disdains : 
I pluck th' unfading rose, without a thorn ;-~- 

You fee] the piercing thorn, yet mis3 the flower. 



325 



SONNET V. 

TO THE RIVER FROOMK 

Sweet, lovely stream,-— across my native lawn 

That roil'st in modest pride thy silent wave ; 
My willing feet, by magic impulse drawn^ 

Seek the dear meadows which thy waters lave* 
Oft, with the partners of my youthful play, 

I pluckM the cowslip from thy tufted side^ 
And, as we bask'd in Pleasure's orient ray. 

In gadding balls the drooping fiowrets tied^ 
Pure was my bosom as thy glassy face. 

Soft as thy wave my blissful moments flowed ^ 
Now, while my eyes thy well-known beauties trace^ 

They add fresh weight to Sorrow's whelming 
load. 
Scenes once belovM my anxious heart annoy i 
Sad are the monuments of long-lost joy* 

u 2 



226 



SONNET VI. 

ON A SUICIDE.. 

Where yon pale cypress shades the lonely way^ 

Sleep the cold relics of a lovely maid : 
X«ong did the star of Peace, with cloudless ray, 

Beam on her path ; till barb'rous man betrayed 
Her soft, unpractis'd heart. — Awhile she gazM 

With horror on herself; till grim Despair 
To her pale lips the fatal goblet raisM, 

DruggM with the poisonous draught, — With 
idiot stare, 
And frenzied laugh, she heavM the bitter throe, 

Till Death's chill dews her beauteous face over- 
spread, 
And dimm'dvher sparkling eye, — O child of woe ! 

Light lie the green-sward on thy hapless head ! 
But what shall be the guilt-stain'd wretch's doom, 
Whose treacherous passion hurl'd thee to the tomb ? 



22T 



SONNET VII. 

WRITTEN IN A GROTTO, CONTAINING 
THE BUSTS OF ILLUSTRIOUS HEROES. 

Deck'd with bright guerdons of immortal fame^ 

In native splendour Albion's heroes shine ; 
A wondering world resounds their boasted name, 
And twining laurels deck their brilliant shrine. 
But say, cherubic train, whose flaming quire 

Fill with ecstatic lays the vocal sky, 
Are these the race, whom HeavVs eternal Sire 

Views with peculiar smile and fav'ring eye ? 
Go, — ^to yon moss-clad cell direct thy feet ; 

There shall thine eyes a nobler Hero view ; — 
See suppliant Faith infernal powers defeat. 

And heav'nly Grace Corruption's might subdue* 
This lowly Conqueror of himself survey. 
And ah ! how mean is Grandeur's dazzling ray ! 



22S 



SONNET VIIL 

WRITTEN IN A BOWER DEDICATED TO 
PEACE. 

The spreading beech and verdant ivy twine, 

And op'ning roses deck the friendly bower ; 
Yet, ah ! though Nature^s brightest charms combine^ 

Not here will Peace extend her soothing power. 
'Tis not Ambition^s bait, nor Splendour's siiow, 

Can lure the placid virgin^s lingering feet ; 
But the blest heart, where heavV.ly passions^ glow, 

She calls her joyful dome, her hallow'd seat. 
If humble Faith inspire the longing breast, 

If conscious guilt excite the sorrowing prayer,. 
Though poor, illiterate, destitute, oppress'd, 

The cherub rears her holy temple there ; 
And, when fell Time the blooming bow'r destroys, 
Will fill the grateful heart with Heav'n's immortal 

joys. 



229 



SONNET IX. 

TO AMBITION. 

Sound thy shrill conch, thou queen of anxious 
cares, 
And lift thy lurid torch, whose dazzling rays 
May lure the fond crowd o'er thy slippery ways, 
To chase the visionary prize, that glares 
Upon thy rocky height. — The balmy gale, 
That whispers peace, is sweeter to my breast 
Than all thy lurements, and my wishes rest 
In the lovM cot that smiles on yonder vale. 
The cumbrous glories of the proud and rich 
Within my heart no envious thought awake ; 
When death- fraught storms th' aspiring moun«? 
tains shake. 
Peace spreads her wing around my humble niche : 
I view the distant clouds with fearless eye, 
And for the sons of Grandeur heave a sigh. 



230 



SONNET X. 

ON A RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Spirit of Death ! who rais'd thy vengeful arm, 
Against my fainting breast to shake thy dart,—^ 

Foil'd is thy rage, and past thy dread alarm, 
For Heav n hath sparM me, and my bounding 
heart 

Wakes to new life. Yet, 'midst the jovial strain 
Of health and joy, the tear will dew my cheek, 
For stern reflection to my soul will speak, 

And say, dire spirit, thou shalt come again. 

Again thou shalt assail this trembling frame, 
Seize the dropt dart, and hurl it to my breast, 

Quench with thy poisonous breath my vital flame, 
And fold me in the grave's eternal rest. 

Oh I let my soul, inr health's returning bloom, 

Wean'd from the toys of time, prepare to meet her 
doom. 



231 



SONNET XL 

Thou who hast lov'd, in luxury of grief, 

To pause, at midnight, o'er the tear-bath'd tomb 
Of the lost friend, and sought a sad relief 

In the drear cloister's melancholy gloom ; 
Thy heart will throb in unison with mine, 

While to the mansions of the dead I go,' — 
O'er a lov'd father's humble grave recline, 

Drop the fond tear, and heave the tender throe. 
Thrice-honour'd saint, if, from thy radiant sphere, 
Thou see'st thy child, a weary pilgrim here. 

If to thy thought my wants and woes are known, 
Oh ! through the cheerless wild my feet must tread, 
Guide my lone course, defend my hapless head, 

And fire my soul to virtues like thy own. 



232 



SONNET XII. 
WRITTEN AT FRAMPTON UPON SEVERN. 

Frampton 1 I love to stray- thy meads along, — 

To mark the church-towV glimmering through 
the trees 
That skirt thy green, and catch the mellow song, 

Borne from yon woodlands by the perfumed 
breeze. 
Now, rapt in musings, from some sloping mound, 

I watch the skiff on Severn's billowy tide, — 
Trace the blue hills that lift their heads around. 

And count the herds that grace their verdant side. 
Sweet are thy charms, by lavish Nature given, 

Yet, lovely spot ! a prouder boast is thine ; 
For oft the muses, at the close of even, 

Have warbled in thy grove their songs divine ; 
And while they breath d the strain with rapture 

fraught. 
Their sweetest lays thy favoured Gardner taught ! 



233 



SONNET XIIL 

AMBITION TRIUMPHANT OVER LOVE. 

No more, ye Deities of soft desire, ^ 

With votive incense at your shrine I bow ; 
In other breasts illume your treacherous fire ; 

For wisdom's manlier bliss I breathe my vow* 
Say, shall the soul, of godlike essence form'd, 

Pine with fond anguish in the bowV of Love ? 
Oh ! let me rise with holy transport warm'd, 

Spurn the vain lure, and seek my bliss above. 
The smiles of Beauty, and the songs of Mirth 

I leave, — >to commune with the mighty dead ; 
Children of glory, sons of honoured worth,-— 

O'er my glad breast your kindling spirit shed. 
To Fame's bright steep my eager feet aspire : 
Farewell, ye Deities of soft desire! 

X 



234 



SONNET XIV. 

Vain is th' impassion'd vow that Fancy breathes 
For happiness below. — The child of hope 
Awhile may saunter on the sunny slope, 

And twine the wild-flow'rs in fantastic wreaths ; 

Yet, ere he gains the mountain's arduous height, 
Nipt are their beauties by the chilling blast ; 
And thorny wilds, with labouring clouds o'ercast. 

Burst in dread horrors on his aching sight. 

Trill your gay songs, — exult in youthful prime. 
Ye sons of joy, and grasp the fleeting hour : — 
Soon shall ye feel oppression's ravenous power ; 

Soon shall your vision's fade, your transports die. 

Ah ! blest are they, who seek a happier clime. 

Nor trust the bliss that blooms beneath the skv. 



235 



SONNET XV. 

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SIDE.] 

Ye hoary cliffs, in awful grandeur pil'd, 

Ye rocks, that to the waves your bosoms bare, 
*Mid the lone caverns of your peaceful wild, 

A weary wanderer seeks to hide his care, 
True, ye may frown obdurate on my cries, 

Yet more obdurate is the heart of man ; 
Your wandering herds are heedless of my sighs ; 

But, ah ! more heedless is the human clan* 
Yet, O ye solitudes, your haunts among 

A respite from her pangs my soul may gain ; 
To answering waves she pours her plaintive song, 

Unvext by pride, and folly's taunting train : 
Your friendly tenants shall my griefs beguile ; 

No treachery lurks within their soothing smile,. 



236 



SONNET XVI. 

Oh for some shadowy glen, some turf-built shed, 
On the dark bosom of the pathless waste, 
In whose lone haunts, with welcome horrors 
gracM, 

The child of grief may rest his aching head ! 

I ask not happiness, — illusive prize ! 
Yet, must I languish in eternal tears ? 
Must pining grief consume my transient years, 

And every gale be loaded with my sighs ? 

O Peace ! receive me to thy silent cell : 
There let my soul in stagnant ease recline : 
Round my pale brows thy soothing poppies twine, 

And each fond sense of grief or joy dispel : 

Too faithful Memory, bid thy forms depart ; 

And take, O treacherous Hope, thy visions from 
my heart. 



237 



SONNET XVIL 

THE THUNDER-STORM, 

See ! the wild Tempest-Fiend through bursting 
clouds 
His fiery chariot wheels, — ^With thundering sound 
Rush the red bolts of vengeance, and around 

Terrific night the deathful triumph shrouds, 

Save where the lightning's flash with lurid gleams 
Gilds the wide waste. — The giddy and the gay 
Aghast may tremble, as they blithely stray 

Where pleasurelights their path with dazzling beams 

Of cloudless joyance. But I love to view 

This sweetly-mournful scene ; yon whirlwind^ 

boom 
Is music to my ear, and midnight's gloom 

More welcome than the landscape's brightest hue. 

For while my soul her blasted bliss bemoans^ 

tn unison with me Creation groans. 

X 2 



23S 



SONNET XVIIL 

THE TEMPEST. 

The moaning winds are up :- — with joyful eyes 
I view the black storm low Vmg o'er my head ; 
And, while the clouds their kindred horrors 
spread, 

Gaze with wild rapture on th' embattled skies. 

All hail, ye warring tempests ! — ye are dear 
To feelings such as mine. — I love to pour, 
Symphonious with the torrent's turbid roar, 

My bitter sighs, and swell with many a tear 

The foaming surge. — Dark is yon mantling shade, 
Yet blacker is the gloom that shrouds my soul. 
Fierce as the whirlwinds that deform the pole. 

Yet fiercer storms my fainting breast invade. 

Ah! when shall Peace her healing beams display. 

Shine o'er my heart, and smile the storm away ? 



229 



SONNET XIX. 

FAITH. 

O LIFE ! thau art a dreaiy waste, overspread 

With thorns and briers, and whehn'd in shades 
of death ; 
And, should a rose-bud rear its tender head, 

'Tis witherM by oppression's poisonous breath. 
O'er thy polluted paths the sons of Time 

Their gloomy course beguile with plantive cries : 
But who is she, that lifts her brow sublime,— 

Looks on the waste, and seems to grasp the skies ! 
^Tis Faith ! — I trace her light-encircled form, 

Her heaven-directed eve, her cherub mien : 
Without a fear she views the low'ring storm, 

And treads without a sigh the baleful scene. 
Unmov'd she smiles at sorrow's darkest gloom^ 
And sings of happiness — beyond th« tomb. 



240 



SONNET XX. 

TO AFFLUENCE. 

Effulgent Goddess! at whose gem-crown'd 
shrine, 

Rapt in wild dreams contending suppliants fall I 
No frequent votary to thy power divine, 

Now proffers at thy foot the fervent call. 
No sordid store, no pompous boon, I crave ; 

For well the groves and prattling streamlets 
know, 
My soul disdains ambition's venal slave. 

The hoards of avarice, and the lures of show.^ 
Come, Power benign I my bounded wish complete : 

Oh I crown the vow by temper'd Reason form'd ; 
Give me the rural cot, the calm retreat, 

With lettered ease and social bounty warm'd ; 
Give me — enough to succour the distrest, 
Enough to render my Elmira blest. 



241 



SONNET XXL 

RESIGNATION. 

Ye, who have felt afHiction's searching fang, 
Oh ! tell a wretch o'erwhelm'd by kindred woes. 
What charm can yield the grief-worn breast re- 
pose ? 

What balm can solace the corroding pang 

Of heart-consuming anguish ? Shall I seek 
The faithless scenes of pleasure as they fly ? 
Or shall the zephyrs of a distant sky 

Restore the roses to my faded cheek ? 

Vain were the thought.^ — O Pleasure, than the 
wind 
More fleet, more false, — thy charms no more I 

woo :, 
My soul shall trust alone her Father, God» 

Here will I rest with holy hope resigned, 

Till heavVs full glories burst upon my view, 
And He, who scourg'd^ remove the friendly rodl 



242 



SONNET XXII. 

TO HOPE. 

Ah visionary flatterer ! why delude 

My swelling fancy with thine airy dream ? 
Why on my soul thy dazzling forms obtrude, 

Inconstant as the meteor's fleeting gleam ? 
Fair are thy phantom's as the changeful hues 

That lend their charms to heav Vs aerial bow ; 
Yet ah ! as transient are the lovely views, 

And short-liv'd rapture yields to lasting woe. 
Tir'd of thy treacherous lures, my rescued soul 

Mounts with strong faith beyond the sphere of 
time, 
And seeks th' eternal shore, where pleasures roll, 

And bliss shall flourish in immortal prime. 
Daughter of magic wiles, a long farewell ! 
On yonder starry plains my wishes dwell. 



143 



SONNET XXIIL 

YOUTHFUL EXPECTATION. 

Gay child of Hope ! unfurl thy fluttering sails-— 
Bid the bright streamer wanton in the breeze, 
And launch adventurous on th' unruffled seas, 
'Midst dancing sunbeams, and propitious gales ; — - 
Yet oh ! — impatient voyager, beware. — 

Bright are thy prospects, cloudless are thy skies ; 
But ah ! how soon devouring storms may rise, 
Yon broken rafts and shatter'd sails declare. 
Go, and be prosperous. May the sun of bliss 
Shine on thy course, and fav'ring zephyrs blow : 
But I too well the treacherous ocean know 
To quit my refuge for the vast abyss : 
Pleas'd I behold my weary wand'rings close, 
And bless th' Almighty arm that guides me to fe« 
pose. 



244 



SONNET XXIV. 

THE HEAVENLY VISION. 

Ye spirits of the just, who circle round 

With everlasting lays your Father King ; 
And bid th' ecstatic lyre His glory sound, 

Till heav'n's high concave with your praises 
ring,— 
Oft has my soul with holy rapture stray'd, 

Entranced in visions, o'er your sapphire plains, 
Your bowVs of bliss with ravish'd eye survey'd, 

And heard your sweet unutterable strains. 
Your ransom'd throng, array'd in robes of white, 

With mingling cherubs, fed my longing gaze, 
But ah ! for man too rapturous was the sight, 

And nature sunk in glory's dazzling blaze. 
I mourn to wake amidst a world of woe : — 
When shall I join the scenes your heav'nly visions 
show? 



245 



SONNET XXV. 

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN 
ABBEY. 

Ye rev'rend cloisters, o'er whose mouldering seats 
Celestial Peace her gray-plumM wing displays, — 
Deep to your lone recesses, from the blaze 

Of earthly pomp, my weary soul retreats, 

Bow'd by Oppression's rod, your kindred gloom 
Shall soothe my pining sorrows, and awhile 
Immortal hope the pangs of grief beguile. 

Here shall Reflection, on the moss-clad tomb 

Leaning her pensive head, with piercing eye 
Gaze on the glories of the eternal year, 
When heavenly hands shall v/ipe each starting 
tear, 

And crown with pleasures that shall never die. 

She bids my soul her mortal cares dismiss, 

Rapt in the visions of immortal bliss. 

Y 



'I 



246 



SONNET XXVL 

THE CELL OF PEACE. 

Ye scenes of earth-born pride, — a long farewell ! 
No more your phantoms shall my heart enslave ; 
Oh! take the grief-encircled joys ye gave, 
And let me linger in some lonely cell, 
Where yet the cherub Innocence may show 
Her spotless beauties, and seraphic Peace 
Bid the wild tumults of my soul to cease, 
And wipe with lenient hand the tear of woe. 
And there, sweet soother of the wounded heart, 
Shall meek-ey'd Faith her healing balm apply t 
While Hope shall wave her fulgent torch on high, 
And, as the pageants of an hour depart, 
Shall point to mansions of immortal rest, 
And wake the holy anthems of the blest. 



247 



SONNET XXVIL 

TO A FRIEND ON THE BANKS OF THE 
SEVERN, 

Within thy woodbin'd cot, on Severn*s marge, 
In rural peace thou dwell'st. Thy moments glide 
With peaceful tenour, and the toys of pride 

Reach not thy cell. Yet should thy soul enlarge 

At Wealth^s deceitful views ; should Glory's sound 
Wake the fond wish, or Grandeur prompt thy vow, 
Turn thy lone footsteps to yon mountain's brow, 

And mark the mingled scenes that spread around. 

There shalt thou view the streamlet's glassy wave 
Glad the fair vale, and flowVs adorn its verge ; 

There shalt thou see the distant ocean rave, 

And whelm the bark beneath its mad'ning surge ; 

Like the calm riv'letbe thy tranquil life ; — 

More fierce than ocean's rage is pride's tumultu- 
ous strife. 



248 



SONNET XXVIIL 

TO SORROW. 

And wilt lliou come, O unrelenting power, 

Eternal partner of my dreary way ? 
And dost thou seek again my lonesome bower, 

Crush my fond hopes, and cloud my youthful day I 
Once more, with trembling eyes, thy well-known 
form 

I mark descending through the turbid air ; 
In darkness wrapt thou ridest on the storm, 

With Sin thy parent, and thy child Despair. 
Yet though frail nature trembles at thy sight. 

Thou comest to my heart a friendly guest : 
' ris thine to chase the phantoms of delight. 

Mould the stern will, and cleanse the guilty 
breast. 
Oh ! banish from my thought the dreams of time, 
And point the sufferer to th' immortal clime ! 



249 



SONNET XXIX. 

MIDNIGHT. 

'Tis midnight^ atid the ruthless wintry blast 

Howls o'er the fragments of the foander'd bark I 
See I the swoln corses on the strand are cast, 

Hurl'd by the warring elements ; and hark I 
Tis the wreek'd mariner's expiring shriek, 

Who grasp'd th' o'erhanging cliff with despVate 
force^ 
Yet, while his feet some nook of shelter seek,. 

Is 'buried in the wild wave's refluent course^ 
Mourners ! who frame the fond lamenting tale 

O'er fancied evils,— look on real woe t 
What are the cares that prompt your tender wail^. 

What, to the rending pangs that others know I 
With grief like yours, the sufferers would be blestj)^ 
And deem your sorraws bliss^ your tumults rest^ 

X 2 



250 



SONNET XXX. 

TO AN AFFLICTED FRIEND. 

Yes, while thou lingVest in thv tent of clay, 

Attendant on thy path distress shall go ; 
Yet weep not o'er the griefs that crowd thy way. 

For Wisdom dwells within the house of woe. 
The sneer of Pride, with Envy's harpy fang, 

The throes of baffled Hope, and slighted Love, 
Shall rive thy lab'ring breast with many a pang. 

Oh ! let them lift thy thoughts the earth above. 
Let the gay worldling mock thy plaintive sigh ; 
Yet there is one, whose ear attends thy cry ; 

His love shall guide thee, and his pow'r defend. 
Poor pilgrim ! cease thy visionary fears^ 
Let holy rapture dry thy bitter tears : — 

The God of Mercy is thy &ithful friend* 



251 



SONNET XXXL 

A MORNING SKETCH. 

Bright Phosphor lingers in the red'ning sky 
And feather'd songsters hail the rising day ; 
The meadows laugh, with golden beauties gay^ 
And russet hills rebound the reaper's cry. 
Hark ! 't is the milkmaid chanting o'er her pail, 
The whistling ploughboy saunters through the 

shade, 
The fleecy charges deck the whitening glade. 
And sportive lambkins frisk along the vale. 
The vigorous team slow lobours in the dell, 

While the shrill belis in mingled cadence sound^ 
And there, remote from Fashion's giddy round,^ 
Sings the blithe shepherd, in his turf-built celU 
Ye cities } what can ail your pomp afford, 
To vie with scenes like these, with spotless plea- 
sure stor'd I 



252 



SONNET XXXIL 

Sister belovM ! if pure Affection's lay, 

Though short, an echo in thy heart may find, 
Accept the warm vows from a brother's mind 
Breath'd in a faithful strain, to greet the day 
That gave thee birth. To live in lengthened years 
I pray not for thee, for too well I know 
That Earth's most pleasant paths are paths of 
woe ; 
And soon each pilgrim's cheek is worn with tears : 
But this I pray, that holy Faith may raise 

Thy w^ishes from the world : how brief thy date 
It matters not, if Jesu's love create 
Thy ransom'd soul anew, and guide thy ways. 
Then may thy cares for earthly prospects end, 
Heav'n is thy home, thy Saviour isthy friends. 



253 



SONNET XXXIIL 

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE. 

Here, from the scenes of pageant pride releasM, 

Embower'd in bliss the revVend Herbert dwells ; 
Quits the false earth, on heavenly joys to feast, 
And seeks for Wisdom in her rural cells. 
Though void of burdening Wealth's redundant store, 

A frugal board his daily want supplies ; 
Unskilled in Sophistry's deceitful lore. 

With humble Faith he rests, — divinely wise. 
So, \vhen my social duties are dischargM, 

No more on transitory cares intent ; 
Here let me rest, from earth-born toils enlarged. 

While Faith and Hope their healing balm present. 
Thus let my feet their destin'd circle run, — 
Life's noblest comfort's share,- — its deathful tumult 
shun. 



254 



SONxNET XXXIV. 
TO ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 

AUTHOR OF " THE FARMER'S BOY," ScC. ScC. 

Sweet poet of the mead ! whose artless muse, 

To Virtue sacred and to Genius dear, 
Rob'd the bright landscape in unfading hues, 

And sang the beauties of the varying year ; 
Long as the wild thrush carols through the wood, 

Long as the ploughshare cleaves th' indented lea, 
So long thy strains shall charm the wise and good. 

And Fame shall twine her fairest wreaths for thee. 
This be thy glory : — not that Nature's powers 

Thy fancy kindled at her sacred shrine ; — 
Not that she bade thee sing her rosy .bowers, 

And breath'd a soul along each flowing line : 
But that, by Virtue's holy flame refin'd, 
Thy pa^es but reflect the beauties of thy mind. 



% 



SONNET XXXV. 

TO THE NAIADS OF THE LAKES IN 
CUMBERLAND. 

Ye nymphs, that skim along the silvery lakes^ 

Where Skiddaw's hoary brow reflected shows, 
Say, can your lonesome dells, and flow'ry brakes, 

Yield a calm shelter from devouring woes ? 
Then would I raise my cot your streams beside, 

And wake the merry harp to love and joy ; — 
The scenes of grief Oblivion's veil should hide, 

And Hope's gay dreams my roving thoughts 
employ. 
Yet stay, my fluttering heart ! — Beneath a sky 

More bright, more pure, my bounding feet may 
range : 
But canst thou from thyself, O wanderer ! fly ? 

Can fairer suns thy sinful nature change ? 
No more the chase of earth-born pleasures try ; 
Let all thy wishes centre in the sky. 



w 



SONNET XXXVL 

When blushing Eve unveils the starry fires, 
As o'er the plains I roam with pensive eye, 
My fellow-swains, ~with taunting laughter, cry : 

''See the frail youth, whom ill-starrM love inspires!" 

And many a sage with leaden tongue exclaims, 
" Fond swain ! the tyrant from ihy breast repel : 
" Shun the dire shaft, — the deadly tumult quell, 

" And quench by Reason's pow'r the lurking 
flames." 

Yes I my Elmira ! — to the sapient strain 

Which Reason pours, my duteous heart shall 

bow; 
For — Reason smiles upon my tender vow, 

And firmer binds Affection's golden chain. 

Reason and Love to crown my choice agree : 

I love with reason when I gaze on thee. 



25' 



SONNET XXXVIL 

TO THE REV. J*** E***, OF Y ATT ON, 
SOMERSETSHIRE. 

Where peaceful Yatton lifts her humble fane, 

Oft have I heard thy sweetly-pow'rful tongue 
In virtue's path direct the rural train, 

While on thy voice persuasive Wisdom hung. 
Yet, while thy strains my pensive bosom warmM, 

With fruitless grief I saw thy cultured mind, 
For crowded courts and peopled cities form'd, 

To the green hamlet's moss-crown 'd cells con- 
finM. 
If lingering Health requires thy distant stay, 

Let other climes thy mental labours share, 
The beauteous transcript of thy soul convey, 

And bid thy pen Religion's notes prepare : 
These, when thy tongue shall moulder in the sod^ 
Will guide the yielding heart — to Virtue and to 
God* 

•z 



258 



SONNET XXXVIII. 

TO IMAGINATION. 

Celestial visitant ! — whose magic wiles 

The wintry gloom with vernal flow'rs can dress ; 
The tints of Mirth on Sorrow's cheek impress, 

Or deck with glowing scenes the midnight aisles ; 

Oh come ! refulgent in thy loveliest smiles ; 
This lowly cell with purest raptures bless : 
On this sad heart exert thy pleasing guiles, 

And cheer with sparkling scenes my lone receks. 

Farewell, ye charmless visions of renown ! 
For softer joys my chasten'd wishes burn ; 
One long-lov'd object to my soul restore ; 

With one dear form my silent wandVings crown, 
And bid her image to these vales return, 
Though envious Fate immures on Severn's 
joyless shore. 



259 



SONNET XXXIX. 

O LYRE of Grief, o'er whose unhallow'd strings, 
By Misery taught, my careless fingers strayM : 
No more my soul invokes thy mournful aid, 

My voice no more its cheerless descant sings. 

Though still my heart thy sorrowing murmurs suit. 
How vain in fruitless agonies to pine ! 
Oh come, fond muse ! the plaintive harp resign^ 

Try the shrill tabret, — wake the sounding lute. 

In vain thy note my sufferings would relieve, 
Yet ah I one hope of happier scenes infuse ; 

For one short hour my shuddering heart amuse. 

And the sad sense of haggard woe deceive. 

Thus, for a while, the pan^^s of grief remove, 

Each care alleviate, and each bliss improve* 



260 



SONNET XL. 

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF 
WINTER. 

Seb ! to the busy town's di^^cordant noise 

What giddy wanderers urge their idle flight ; 
For transient splendour leave pt^rennial joys, 

And, grasping shadows, quit sincere delight, 
I envy not, fond crowd ! your gilded woe ; 

Be mine the pleasure Nature's charms impart: 
Hence your perfidious smile, and cumbrous show ; 

Be mine the joys that penetrate the heart. 
Though Plenty glads no more th' unbleating dale, 

How sweet th' encircled fire, — the social board ^ 
To gather wisdom from the snow-clad vale, 

To share the bliss domestic scenes afford ; 
And, 'mid the rattling storm, and dreary gloom, 
Thy power, O Love ! can bid unfading flowrets 
bloom* 



261 



SONNET XLL 

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON THE CON- 
CLUSION OF THE YEAR 1806. 

Heard ye the bell that echoM through the bound f 
Hark ! — 't is the knell of the departed year : 
Ye sons of earth ! its awful tidings hear j 

For you the melancholy tidings sounds 

O death ! what ruthless havoc hast thou made ! 
Pierc'd by thy dart, what countless myriads fall I 
Now the lone shepherd hears thy dooming cally 

And now the monarch in the dust is laid. 

And ah ! ere Time renews the wintry gloom, 

/too may slumber in the dreary tomb ; 

This heart may cease to throb, this pulse to beat.> 

Father of Heav'n ! thou kncw'st my future state ^ 

Teach me to brave the frowns of angry fate, 

And Death himself with cheering hope to meets. 

a 2 



262 



SONNET XLIL 

TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY- 
THIRD SONNET. 

Yon tuneful nightingale, whose tender lay 

Her ravish'd young, a much-lov'd mate bemoans, 
Soft as she trills her wild notes from the spray, 

Charms the lone valley with her soothing tones : 
And through the night she seems to share my woes, 

And mourn the kindred pangs that prompt my 
sigh ; 
Pangs that alone from erring Fancy rose. 

Which dreamt a goddess should the grave defy. 
How soon will Hope the slumbVing heart surprise ! 

How could my soul believe those radiant eyes, 
Pure as the sun, should mingle with the clay ? 
At length the Fates my future doom reveal ; 
Lifeless to live, and seeking death, to feel 

How transient earthly joys, how brief their stay ! 



263 



SONNET XLIIL 

TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY- 
FOURTH SONNET. 

Nor stars that roll on high their wand'ring train, 

Nor barks that glide along the glassy flood, 
Nor warriors, blazing on the tented plain, 

Nor deer, gay bounding thro' the gloomy wood, 
Nor tidings that delight the longing breast, 

Nor dulcet warblings of the love-tun'd lyre, 
Nor limpid founts, nor meads in verdure drest, 

Made vocal by the virgins beauteous quire. 
Nor aught besides my grief-\7oni heart can prize, 
Since she, the light and mirror of my eyes. 

Sleeps in the dust. By speechless woes impell'd, 
1 call for Death, — blest boundary to my pain. 
Still panting to behold those charms again. 

Which, ah ! 't were best I never had beheld Si 



264 



A FRAGMENT. 



I. 



Does Wisdom^s lore inform the silvered head ? 

Does holy Truth the fireless heart control ? 
Does mellowing time a sacred influence shed 

T' exalt the wishes, and transmute the soul ? 



11. 



See, in the chains of thoughtless Pleasure bound. 
What hoary myriads revel while they may, 

By lengthen'd years with lengthened follies crown'd, 
Clinging to wretchedness with fond delay. 



HI. 



By the wild glare of radiant phantoms lurM, 

The wanderer, man, their fleeting train pursues^ 

Yet, w^hen he deems the lovely form secur'd, 
They vanish, like the rainbow's transient hues* 



265 



IV. 



Proud of his little powers, he lifts to heaven 
The daring front, and sports his transient day , 

Heedless for what the span of life was given, 
How vast his duties, and how short his stay. 



V- 



He roves, all playful, on Perdition's brink, 
Yet views no yawning precipice below ; 

He sees his comrades fall, yet scorns to shrink^ 
And smiles at Justice and her menaced blow* 



VI. 



Yet soon the dream is o'er ; — an angry God 
Curbs the vain rebel in his mad career : 

Crushed is his pride beneath the scourging rod, 
And stretch'd his cold corpse on the gloomy biei?. 



36€ 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 



OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 
AND INSCRIBED TO HER SISTER. 



Spirit! who sittest on the mouldVing piles 
Of the fall'n temple or disparted tower, 

Or wander'st in the cloister's echoing aisles, 
Turning thy sand-glass at each passing hour ; 



II. 



Queen of sad musings ! — to thy drear domain 
I come, where sorrow guides my lonely way ; 

Where weeping Friendship breathes the mournful 
strain, 
Waves the dim torch, and points to Mary's clay 



267 



III. 



In the dark vault she sleeps.— -How vain the vows 
Breath'd by fond love to stay the fatal dart ! 

The dews of Deaih upon her lovely brows 
Are dried, and stiffened is her guileless heart* 

IV. 

As the fair blossom, on the vernal morn, 

Woo'd by the breeze, expands its trembling 
flowers ; 

Yet, while its leaf the dewdrops still adorn. 
Some sweeping blast its orient bloom devours : 



V. 



So, in the tender pride of infant grace. 

She rose, while Hope her riper charms por- 
trayed, 
Pleas'd the young virtues of her soul to trace, 
Where Truth and Love their new-born smile 
displayed. 



268 



VI. 



But Hope was false, and stopt where Fancy's lay^ 
By the stern summons of relentless Death ; 

Swift at his voice the lurking poison strays 

Through each wan limb, and checks her flat- 
tVing breath. 

VII. 

Thou soul of infant excellence, farewell ! 

Farewell, lovM sister of my heart's best friend ! 
My feet shall seek with hers thy silent cell, 

My heart with hers its mutual sorrow blend. 

VIII. 

When evening^s rays depart, our hands shall bring 
Fresh flowrets, bath'd in dew, to deck thy tomb ; 

And the nipt rose-buds of the virgin spring 

(Emblems of thee !) shall join their soft perfume, 



IX. 



And dove-ey'd Innocence, thy faithful guide, 
And Meekness, ruler of thy gentle heart; 

Lighted by Love, their steps shall thither guide, 
While from their breast the sighs of pity start. 



269 



X. 

Yet why for thee should plaintive accents flow? 

From the bright mansions of the starry spheres, 
In bowers of bliss, thou look'st on mortal woe, 

And wonder'st at affection's fruitless tears, 

XL 

Yes^ T^ary, thou art blest : my kindling soul 
Thy joyful seat with envious eye surveys ; 

No more for thee shall Pity^s murmurs roll, 
But for myself prolong her plaintive Uys. 

XII. 

Rest, happy spirit! thou hast reachM thy home ; 

'Tis thine no more to bear the shocks of fate ; 
We, who remain in future scenes to roam, 

Are but the pilgrims of a longer date, 

XIII. 

And why should life provoke the lingering sigh ? 
Swift as the lightning's gleam our youth shall 
fleet, 
And dim Decrepitude, with beamless eye 
And nerveless hand, shall reign in manhood's seat, 

A a 



270 



XIV. 



Then happiest they, whose path is soonest o'er : 
For earth's most pleasant paths ar6 strew'd with 
grief ; 

And the tir'd wanderer lives but to explore 

How vain are mortal pleasures, and how brief I 

XV. 

What though with glittering hoards our coffers groan. 
What though the smiles of Pomp our faiicy warm. 

Though radiant Fashion mark us for her own, 
And vary at our nod her Proteus form: 

XVL 

What though renown, to spread our boasted praise, 
Loud o'er the earth her brazen trumpet sound i 

Rear the proud bust, and give th' unfading bays 
By Glory's fingers on our temples bound : 

XVII. 

In the dark precincts of the final bourne, 
E'en the sweet flow'rs of hallo w'd Love must fade, 

The pride of Grandeur fall, and Glory mourn 
Her trophies moulder'd, and her crowns decay'd. 



271 



XVIIL 

Soon, Mary, shall the howling night-blast sweep 
O'er hiniy who pours this pensive song to thee ; 

Beneath some flowVy tuft his bones shall sleep, 
Borne to the grave across his favVite lea. 

XIX. 

She too, thy weeping sister, who remains, 

Spar'd by kind Heaven, the partner of my way i 

With Love's responsive throb to soothe my pains, 
Cheer my still course, andbrighten Pleasure's ray : 

XX. 

She too, ah me ! in Death's cold arms must lie, 
The worm must revel on her smiling cheek, 

And sunk and hollow be the sparkling eye. 

Where tender Love and generous Virtue speak* 

XXL 

But the drear path our feet so soon shall tread. 
Thy feet have trodden, and its terrors known ; 

Thy spotless heart has, with no guilty dread. 
Felt the last pang, and heav'd the parting moan* 



272 



XXII. 

Ne'er at thy head her shafts shall Malice aim, 
Nor at thy bosom dart her scorpion sting ; 

Detraction shall not blast thy budding fame, 
Nor scatter mildews from her poison'd wing. 

XXIII. 

Thou shalt not feel Affection's hapless doom^ 
O'erwhelm'd by pining grief through long-drawn 
years ; 
Nor see thy cheek, in vigour's rip'ning bloom, 
By Sorrow blanch'd, like mine, and worn with 
tears. 

XXIV. 

To Him that sitteth on th' eternal throne, 
Begin, pure spirit, thine unceasing lays ; 

He freed thy soul from earth, ere taught to groan, 
Ere torn thy feet by Sorrow's thorny ways. 

XXV. 

Oh for an augePs wing to speed my flight 
High o'er the atmosphere's polluted bound ; 

That I might tread your walks of rich delight, 
And stray your star-bespangled^lains around I 



273 



XXVI. 



Then should my longing soul, O bliss supreme ! 

Your God and King with prostrate awe survey, 
With saints and angels chant the hallo w'd theme^ 

And at His foot my feeble tribute lay. 



THE END. 



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